


splintered kneecaps

by Aris



Series: wyrm sickness [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Dissociation, Emotionally Repressed, Estinien angst, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Ishgard (Final Fantasy XIV), Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Gore, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Redemption, Self-Hatred, Tenderness, a lot more repetitive angst than originally planned oops, estinien-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24430204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris
Summary: Post-Dragonsong War, Estinien has much to contemplate.A familiar, heart-deep mourning has lurked within him for such a time he knows there is no deed enough to quench it. There is no action decisive enough, vicious enough, desperate enough to sate its unbearable pervasiveness. He oft contemplates that he will perish alongside this despair. This rage. Alone, he feels he is nothing more than it. That, stripped from his armor, his title, there is a scared child, punching and crying and begging to be left to rot. To rest. To fall back into the the grass of the Hushed Bough and disintegrate into the remains of Ferndale -- the last relic of a forgotten village collapsing, at last, into barren, sterile, dirt.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Series: wyrm sickness [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1792069
Comments: 81
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

When he was young, the fields were green.

It is a simple truth, one that should not beckon within him such relentless, black, grief. The fields were green, and the village was small. Hushed Bough had been a glade of approximate beauty, the trails of the surrounding forest curled as if the bars of a cradle ‘round the shepherding village. Eagle’s Peak shadow would loom only as night fell, as trusty as a star to navigate oneself between home and the glacier's melt of Maidenmere. He had surveyed its weathered peaks many an hour, a watchful eye upon his father’s flock as they grazed and drank upon the Maidens Glen in early spring. Seasons appeared to arrive earlier upon that side of the mountain, and as summer gave way its bounty to the autumn, he would guide fat Karakul back towards Ferndale and it’s wilding meadows, warm remnants clinging there last.

Estinien recalls the touch of golden sunlight upon his face. Grass tickling at his ears. Dragons had been a remote notion, preferring the greater peaks of Coerthas’ Western Highlands, and though their distant, weaker cousins were numerous, even a village trained soldier could bring home the head of a Drake. He had not stopped to consider the lay of scales upon flesh back then, he had hosted greater concerns among the breeding hypogryphs and heat-mad deer that roamed the valleys betwit grazing lands.

He wishes he had laid hand upon spear sooner. That he had been sent out as the older boys had on patrols of Crooked Fork, the crossing tunnel, Gwyr-Aen. Anything, to have calloused his hands, bared his eyes to the viscosity of death, the reality of their realm. Anything, before...

The fields are gone. T’was black, last he left it. Winter had chased from it this bitterness, and now the cradle of Ferndale that had once held so tight to retreating summers -- 

Bore nothing. Novel snow and stricken pine stoic companions to a lonely grave.

Oh, how sick he is of winter. 

It had been five years since tree bore fruit, since the smaller creatures of Coerthas had curled up for a hibernation from which they would not awaken. Five, since snow had fallen unseasonably and yet to cease. Five, and the stark stone of Ishgard braces an eternal winter well, its arcs and spires a grandiose rancor set against blizzard-strewn skies. Its very architecture appears to beckon forth wind-savvy flurries proudly, offering little in terms of shelter nor warmth for the street travelers, its hardened buildings built to suffer mountain gales and dragon claw only part the time. The Brumes embody this, as once where the older city sprawls tended to a fairer temperate beneath the stone of Foundation, now bitter winds from the Sea of Clouds did merge with their forever winter. A wet, glacial mist was borne of it, one which strips warmth from mother and child with little regard to consequence - Brume, indeed.

The city stands as an antithesis to it’s common-lands, where colour had been the cheer of the peasant folk, where the roaring of the White Maiden and spread of lowland and forest were a bleeding artery on which to thrive. In this new Coerthas, the same folk must bloody their hands beyond the realms of their ancestors, else they flee to the bounty of the Sea of Clouds, or seek shelter among the over-fill slums of Ishgard. Bahamut may have struck down innumerable livelihoods, but the ensuing winter took from them what dignity they had left.

Estinien thrust his lance through snow and frozen ground, coming to a kneel before the heavy sepulchre. The stone had been appropriated from a livestock coral far enough from the blaze that its surface had been spared its pallet. Winding carved words upon the surface spoke of Alberics’ crude workmanship, fading now to the winds chilly parlour and the creeping of frost, burrowing cracks among the letters. A more legitimate grave lay at Providence Point, near to the collapsed connecting tunnel now known as The Ogre’s belly; although no bodies had ever been brought through the pass to rest beneath its inscribed remembrance. Hollow of sentiment.

The lands of his birth were scarce traversed in this age, what few wheat and livestock once traded now unable to weather such unabated cold. He had stalked the circumference of Eagle’s Peak alone, ribs aching as if to splinter as glaciers kissed once more at the shore of the Maidens Glen, Maidenmere itself no more a lake than an icy expanse. He doubts the Priestfish and Highlandic crabs he had once enjoyed remain there still, and although blue had beckoned illustriously from beneath an ever-thickening layer of ice, it had ached to entertain such fanciful wishing. He had left the soulful place to its quiet burial after a small handful of stolen hours walking its ashen shores.

He quietly anchors himself where he stands. He reaches towards the date before him, _1562_ , only to feel his years melt from him like so much rotten flesh. A familiar, heart-deep mourning has lurked within him for such a time he knows there is no deed enough to quench it. There is no action decisive enough, vicious enough, _desperate_ enough to sate its unbearable pervasiveness. He oft contemplates that he will perish alongside this despair. This rage. Alone, he feels he is nothing more than it. That, stripped from his armor, his title, there is a scared child, punching and crying and begging to be left to rot. To rest. To fall back into the grass of the Hushed Bough and disintegrate into the remains of Ferndale -- the last relic of a forgotten village collapsing, at last, into barren, sterile dirt.

Instead, he unbuckles his armour. Stained now with blood of the very Wyrm who incited the end of his childish innocence, it is unrecognizable to his eyes. Each piece is held to him by belt and buckle, and as he unclips and unwinds his hands turn pale against the cold metal. 

It takes a long time. 

Light cloud cover above him hearkens a bloody gloom as the wine-drunk sun diffuses to mist, deeper still as hours flit upon the meadow. His limbs stain red as he settles his palm along the length of his lance; he does not think of its grizzly implication as he struggles to his feet, limbs sore and stiff to the chill. The handhold is smooth against callous. Intimate, where it extends from his arm, as if his very nervous system twists about the vicious shape. The very same that had sunk deep in dragon marrow, the weapon placed into his hands at the behest of the Holy See, held at the throat of his loved ones by claw and burning, visceral, anger. One not entirely his own.

It is a chapter past. A page turned.

He lets it go.

A weight is not lifted nor a burden removed. He feels numbs as he beholds the monument, decorated now in the armor of a man who would not let himself be buried. 

Not _yet_.

Estinien hooks his travelling bag to his back, looks once more upon Eagles Peak, the former zenith of his home appearing somehow smaller in the encroaching dusk, and turns north.

Nidhogg is dead. He lives, now, for whatever is left.

* * *

"You love him.”

The fire crackles between them, its embers winding to the heavens as the brisk wind holds its chilly breath. Estinien knows not what to say, bites at the sharpness folded within his tongue.

“... as forbidden as mine own love.” Ysayle sighs, looking out even as the darkness closes in, “And he is yet unaware?”

A silence.

“Of course.”

* * *

Aymeric had once recounted to him his childhood. It had been happy but thwart with judgement, although the man himself skimmed over any specific illusions to this. As any lord of a middling house, he had been raised strictly by his tutors and instructors. What little wealth afforded him a finer tier of education than Estinien would ever have been able to imagine, and little did he envy it. Lords were thrown into adulthood years before Estiniens' own ilk. At seven, Aymeric had a proficient mastery of riding, and had well-began strengthening exercises expected to benefit him among the Temple Knights - practically a rite of passage for bastard sons. Despite this, he had admitted to greater simplicities behind closed doors; House Borel was a lesser house on the brink of extinction before the viscount adopted Aymeric into their bloodline.They broke their bread among their few servants and enjoyed foods more typical of Coerthas commoners -- in lieu of great luxury, thin stews and thick bread were more than adequate. Aymeric happily accounts this to their House chef, an older lady originating from Central Highlands.

She had woven him tales of their Eorzean neighbours- Ishgard last closed its gates to such people the very year Aymeric was born and he had yet to see the diversity a free nation could offer. She had recounted tales of Miqo’te woodsmen and Lalafell traders, strange races with characteristics bizarre to their own, but people who were as present and alive as any Elezen or Hyur. Aymeric had spoken of her with great fondness and an old sadness, believing her to have instilled within him an empathy for other races unfound outside the like of House Fortemps, the guardians of their great gates.

Estinien himself had seen little of the outside world in his sheltered little corner of highland. His very first encounter with a Miqo’te had been one of considerable confusion, Ferndale consisting exclusively of Elezen and Hyur, and he had first believed it to be a hat until he had seen the tail twitch with the breeze. His father had found it endlessly amusing to explain, while Estinien had only wondered if he would one day grow fluffy ears and a tail, too. His younger brother had been terrified of the tales he spun.

He thinks on this fondly as he descends towards the dragon shelter just outside of Dragonhead Keep. Shaped as if a bunker and sunken in the surrounding snow, it poses an intimidating yet depressingly necessary sight. Such shelters were often places of refuge in the case of dragon or Ixali attacks alike, but also acted as points of contact for refugee families seeking the aid of the House Knights who afford this land their protection. This particular stretch in Skyfire Locks remained under the purview of House Haillenarte, with four such shelters staggering all the way to Dragon Keep, where House Fortemps hold their guard against the Ixali. Owing to the Houses complementary ties, knights of both kin can be found attending the shelters, a great source of comfort for the common folk who remained, namely the shepherds and gatherers who supply the city proper.

Tonight, it will act as his shelter, as he has no such inclination to visit Dragonhead and its stuffy courtesy, now more so unpalatable in Hauchefants absence. Lord Fortemps' oldest had taken the post of recent, and while a clear-headed and kind as any Fortemps, Estinien cannott yet stomach the sight of another upon the commanding chair. Nor one so loyal to Aymeric, if he were to keep his approach to the city as subtle as possible.

Garbed as he is, he would be unrecognisable to those who do not know him personally. The anonymity will be welcome, especially assured as it seems the customary scouts stationed to the shelters doors were absent. Injured, or recalled to Ishgard to replace the fallen. Dragon attacks are unlikely so soon after Nidhoggs' defeat, but Estinien is hesitant to believe the fleeing wyverns have left peacefully, and such it is an oversight to leave such facilities unattended.

His suspicions are confirmed as two families appear to be already sheltered inside upon his entry. He offers them a short nod before making for the back room, where lies the barricaded storeroom and greater privacy. Estinien does his best to ignore the empty, wide-eyed staring of a boy no more than eight summers old, the accompanying tell-tale scent of ash and ember sharp against the roof of his mouth. Damnable evidence Nidhoggs’ brood doubtless lived on. It would have been a fanciful dream indeed to wish Coerthas free of dragon attacks in only the span of days, but it is a bitter reality nonetheless. His nails grip against his skin tightens.

Upon his return to Ishgard, he would equip himself once more, and burn out the remains of this poison.

There will be no more men like him born to this dravarian rage. Not if he can help it.

He settles into a corner, backpack set as his pillow as he pulls his cloak to his form. Although hungry, he knows he will need the strength upon the morrow. Precious few rations of dried meat and berries await him, hastily collected as he had absconded from the hospice and city a few days past. Yet, it is likely more these families would be provided. He wonders if they plan to return to their home, rebuild it, or take off elsewhere to find easier living. Once more united with the rest of Eorzea, Coerthans would be free to settle within the likes of Gridania, where they share kinship with the Elezen folk there. Though hardly free from danger, it boasted forests alike to the former Coerthas but more ancient and tried, and without the threat of dragons - it would surely be tempting.

But to leave it all behind?

He does not envy them their choice.

* * *

He awakes fitfully upon the morning hour, sore and aching in a way that spoke of his years. He stares for a long moment at the bare ceiling above, categorising each strain and pain that eats at him. A potion would be in order to settle his muscles for travel and though weak, the aether in his body is present enough for a lesser healing tincture. Any lower and the potion would feed upon his integral aether, a fate even Estinien does not risk lightly. 

Drowsy, he drinks from a small vial and awaits the warm tingle of its embrace. It is meager, but enough so he can clamber to his legs and not feel every malm he has ever walked as if a weight on his shoulders. The trek to Ishgard will not be an easy one, and he prays that the darkened skies have not brought forth a white-out to the Highlands - he had not thought to carry gil to rent a chocobo, nor does he have the mind to call upon the Fortemps lest Aymeric hear word of it prematurely. That man has more than his share on his plate as it stood.

With plans to eat his breakfast along the way, he shoulders his bag and draws his cloak, heading out into the main room of the structure. The two families are huddled close to the fire, drawn faces betraying their lack of rest. No doubt they await the Haillenarte House Knights to bring them supplies, but judging from the weak light cast by the ventilation, that will not happen for a while yet. The patrols begin far down the Lock, and were due to arrive by afternoon to check in with their counterparts.

Empty eyes meet his, a boy huddling in the shadow of his mother's skirt, fingers still blackened by ash. A sight so familiar he dare not name it.

Damn it all.

Estinien draws forth the paper bundles that holds his ration, and drops them onto their shared table as he walks by. The mother jumps back, and a man, rugged with grief, half-starts from his chair.

“Peace. They are little but all I carry. Do with it what you will.” 

He does not linger longer lest he snatch it back. His stomach, primed for its anticipated meal, twists in upon itself, and he endeavors to ignore for now. Before the door swings shut behind him he hears a muffled inhale of excitement followed by the murmur of child-like voices. He hopes they will feed the children first.

A _fool,_ is what Aymeric would call him if he knew.

Blessedly, new snow had not fell heavy in the night. His tracks from last night are still visible, and he follows them back to the perimeter of Dragonkeep, where he veers to a path trailing over the adjacent hill. I iss rocky and unsafe for merchant carts, but suits his purposes well. The uphill hike is welcome in this early hour, where cold winds have yet to blow, and a sallow sunlight bathes the snowy expanses below him. He can almost picture the greenery Aymeric had described to him - the farmers fields and bee hives, pig corrals and fish shacks. The path he treads now was perhaps once forged by a shepherds Karkal, free to graze upon unfarmable land. Such terrain had ever been to his own herds likening, giving an advantage of sight lest a predator approach. 

Once the peak of the hill is crested at the high-sun of midday, the journey quickly becomes laborious. He had not been fully healed when he departed, and a few days braving exposure with and then without the protective cover of his armour, has sapped from him what energy he had saved. All too aware of this weakness, he treasures away breaks at the bends of the trail where snow has yet to gather, both glad for his lack of armour at the exertion, and sorely missing it for its comparative heat. A fine balance had been met between strength and weight, and while the inner lining was helpful come the standard cold, among blizzards the metal would suck from its wearer any scrap of heat. On this day, it would have been welcome - but not so its burden.

As he at last staggers down the last of a hazardous descent, more of a drop consisting of well placed boulders than a path at this point, his strength fails him. He has mind enough to grab for the final rock as his legs collapse under him, but still he slips upon pebbles and dashes his head against where he anchors himself.

Estiniens’ head rings with the impact, and pain is slow but sure to follow. His chest heaves and he does his best to count his breaths, to exist through the throbbing now building at his temple, to let it flow through him rather than panic him. It had not been as hard a hit as it could have. He is still conscious, his vision intact, and able to recite an old tavern song in his head. A concussion is unlikely, but they have been known to happen with time.

He curses under his breath.

The Gates of Judgement are not far, his path having now joined with the main road, and he can see spiked peaks from where he sags, collapsed against the rock. He need only make it there, and then across the Steps, and he can raid the Knight Temples barracks for food and rest. It would take three hours, maybe four at the most.

Surely, he can do that.

Determined now, Estinien hauls himself up, but quickly sits back upon the rock he had been crouched besides. The world tilts strangely, and he becomes aware of a warmth trickling down his face. Blood. 

Another dose, then.

Minutes later, his bruised limbs are able to hold him once more. He sets off towards the Gates, wishing faintly he had taken even a berry or two from his breakfast for himself. But what good would it be to waste it on himself - a man with a life half lived, one who shares his bed with resentment and anguish, arrogance and vex. It is better given to the future.

He is glad to be alone with his thoughts, as they reflect remarkably pathetically onto him.

At the gates, he is recognised by an old barrack mate that does not even inquire upon his well-being, such is the state of most Estiniens' acquaintances. The knight merely waves him through, and he steps upon the bridge with a strange anxiety at his breast.

His initial journey from the capitol had been in the cover of night and in the daze of some kind of trance, driven to retrace his life’s steps to their very beginning. Now, sun waning in the sky, he is acutely aware of the damage upon the bridge. Cleared and with wooden supports branching any gaps, the Steps of Faith boasts of its former battle. It is a strange, numb sensation as he passes over one such gap and finds he does not have it within himself to glance downwards at the gaping maw below. Not for fear of the height.

But the fear that, if he were to glance down, Nidhoggs' eyes would glance back.

Experience has made a coward of him.

* * *

“I cause nothing but trouble for you.”

The silence is heavy. They are both tired. Estinien aches from the cold of the prison floor, from the grip of the Temple Knights hands around his wrists. He had lost his temper, again, and Aymeric, as his commanding officer, had been forced to visit the Lord Commander to beg for his release. His anger has faded quickly, as it is wont to do, but the guilt is painfully present.

The political loop holes he has forced Aymeric to jump through, the grovelling he has done on his behalf. Aymeric is a better man than he. Estinien is not so deserving of all this effort, self-sabotaging as he is. Alberic oft comments he would be lucky to _see_ Nidhogg's eyes with the mouth he has on him. He should know better, now. 

If only it were so easy to control. This anger is all that drives him.

“My dear friend - Ishgard knows not what they attempt to rid themselves of by punishing you. It would be a loss keenly felt by all of us,” He sighs, brings his hand to his head to rub at his brow, tendrils of steam escaping from his tea in front of him reaching to embrace his neck.

“Myself especially…” he adds after a pause, causing Estiniens' heart to lodge decidedly in his throat. His friends' eyes flick up to meet his, blue undimmed even in the sparse lighting.

“But perhaps, next time, Ser Hanesforth need not be informed of the many potential sheaths for his sword?”

* * *

  
  


He stumbles into Ishgard as the last few rays of sun fade out behind the great city. A squire hurries out in front of him from the guard towers, blending in with a jolly crowd of retreating merchants. A few stray stands still remain set up around the Main Aetheryte for any late travelers too weary to climb up to The Pillars markets, but for the most part the streets are winding down in anticipation of night. Estinien knows not if the curfew is still in place, and suspects even if it isn’t that the citizens would not be so quick to trust such a novel peace. He certainly does not. Nor does he particularly treasure the thought of ascending the great stairs to the Pillars and the Dragoons quarters - he is only one man, and he longs to set down his bag so he might rest and replenish his strength.

The Forgotten Knight, then. Gibrillont knows he is good for the gil even if he does not carry it on his person. Perhaps he is even serving their Autumnal Root Pie, a cherished favorite of Estiniens. Spirits renewed, he continues his journey, finding that, somewhere along the way, he has begun to favour his left leg. The other is stiff and has borne the lion's share of his weight in the fall. He has survived much worse injuries, has held in his _guts_ in some memorable moments, but without the adrenaline to see him through to the end it seems his body is content to torture him. 

Perhaps he is simply growing old. Dragoons typically retire earlier than most Temple and House Knights, either due to accumulated injury or simply the strain of their fighting style - they have Ser Iolaine Lightsteel to thank for that. Jumping, diving and pivoting from the ground did little good for his joints, and in recent years he has found much solitude among hot springs and public paths. It was a shame Ishgard would have little to do with such establishments, given their disinclination to showing skin, but Estinien is happy their neighbouring nations hold no such qualms. Besides, a tub will serve him just as well, even if a truly large one was hard to come by. The other Dragoons would call him soft if they knew, but he had required his body to maintain its peak lest he fall upon Nidhogg past his zenith. He has never had any intention to repeat Alberic’s failure - although, now on reflection, the man had been wise to avoid the Wyrms’ influence. 

But it had not been his price to pay.

These are old thoughts, his anger and resentment faded as if an old, whitened scar. He has done all he could to avenge his family, his village. It has left him peculiarly empty, and he refuses to turn his thoughts to what is left for him once Nidhogg’s brood is finally all destroyed. What would be left, indeed? It is a hopeless spiral. One better explored with an ale, at the very least.

The smooth descent of rampart gives way to steps and Estinien can only steady himself for a moment against the cold wall before continuing on, each step heavier than the last. He is unsure if he can make it through a meal, at this rate, with a blackness gathering at the ends of vision unattributed to the falling sun.

He makes it to the top of the steps opening into Saint Valeroyants’ Forum when a familiar voice finally greets him.

“I had requested the guard to inform me if the Azure Dragoon were to return to the city. Imagine my surprise, then, when I received news of _Estinien Wyrmblood_ , wounded and without his regalia, passing through the gates.” 

Ah. Aymeric. He stands alone in the Forum, as if the very sight of the Lord Commander has driven the regular drunkards from the familiarity of the street floor. He is but a shadow against the fountain behind him, lit for the evening.

“I can only pray to Halone above that you were heading to report to me, and not to that godforsaken tavern.”

Estinien reaches out to grab for a barrel pushed up against the wall of said tavern, allowing it to hold his weight in lieu of his own strength. His breath plumes in front of him in rapid, shallow clouds.

“Thought they may have missed my custom,” He grates out, wiping at the dried blood on his forehead. Aymeric will have kittens if he sees it. His fingers comee away dark. 

So much for the root pie.

“Esti—”, his voice cuts out, “How fare you, my friend? You haven’t even _attempted_ to flee.”

“In need of an ale, and a bed. If you would so kindly allow me, Lord Commander.” It is painfully obvious the retort lacks his usual biting wit, and he winces at the weakness of his words. Normal behaviour be damned.

Aymeric steps forward, and it is within this instance he is able to see Estinien proper, no longer blinded by the flickering lantern light. Aymeric, too, becomes illuminated - cast in stark relief the shadows beneath his cheekbones unfairly accented, but so too are the shadows beneath his eyes, which lie deep and dark. He looks tired, and stupidly, horribly, beautiful.

The ache beneath his heaving chest has little to do with bruise nor wound.

As he watches, Aymerics' face cracks further, eyebrows crinkling and a worried tilt coming to rest at the curve of his lips. Halone above, the things he’d do—

“ _Estinien_ ,” he breathes out, the word heart-stopping in its intensity, “were you just going to let me lecture you while you were _bleeding out on the floor?_ ” Although shorter, he is no less intimidating as he approaches, intent clear in his eyes.

“I find it is often the...” he coughs, “the faster route.” He pulls up a small, wry smile just for Aymeric, and thoroughly enjoys the night-undetectable flicker of exasperation that washes over his friend's face. Ah, to be witness to the Lord Commander’s true disposition.

“We must hasten to the chirurgeons.” Aymeric informs him while after a fortifying breath, reaching out a hand to grip sternly at his shoulder “Are you able to walk?”

“Don’t need that Fury-fucked Abel bas-”

“I said — _are you able to walk_?”

His tone leaves little space for argument.

“… Probably not.” 

“Then,” says Aymeric, grabbing Estiniens' unbraced arm and looping it over his shoulder, “I will escort you.”

His hand is oddly cold, even through Estinien's layers of clothing. It is a guilty, slinky emotion that settles heavy at his sternum. That Aymeric should wait up on him, even after he had fled in such a selfish fashion - surely, he does not merit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://bakugoz.tumblr.com/)
> 
> or share this fic on tumblr from [ this post ](https://ariswrites.tumblr.com/post/619401784119705600/cold-on-the-inside-chapter-1-estinienaymeric).
> 
> I've been looking forward to posting something ffxiv related so I really hope you enjoy! Estinien accidentally became one of my favourite characters while playing through Heavensward
> 
> please feel free leave a comment on your way out! i really appreciate any feedback!
> 
> [the bookclub discord](https://discord.gg/EfbBeBf)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy! i went back and edited the first chapter to flesh out some weird transition scenes. not plot essential in anyway, just for smoother reading (unless you are particularity interested in the dragon shelters)

The dragon hesitated, though through the fog descending upon his vision Estinien knew not why. Instead, he mustered what little energy remained to him, ignored the ache running the course of his knees and legs, and flung himself into the air.

It could not react quick enough. At such close quarters, there was nowhere to turn, and his lance struck true - through the soft give of scales at the very top of the dragon's head. It was a sickening, fleshy sound as it slot into place between bone. Beneath him, it slumped, a sigh of heated breath escaping its maws as its body deflated to the ground. Adrenaline roared at his ears as he took notice of an arrow that had punctured the beasts’ eye at some point, fresh blood still yet trickling free. Although he had not noticed its happenstance, he deliriously attributed it to the cause for the dragon's pause. Halone’s own angel must have interfered, for Estinien was sure he was to be gutted upon that cave wall.

Exhausted, he lost his balance upon its head, and would have toppled to the floor if it were not for a steadying hand at his side. Amidst smoke and blurred vision, a dark-haired Elezen smiled.

On his back lay a bow.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It had not been his intention to return to the very same hospice bed he had fled days prior, yet Abel had seemed to delight in sticking him in the self-same prison. Perhaps as revenge for being fetched from an off-duty nap by Lucia, a fate he’d wish upon no-one. If it were not Aymeric requesting aid, Estinien has no doubts Abel would have sent for one of his lesser-trained underlings in the Temple Knights Hospitalier. As it was, the man has cussed Estinien to Fury for depleting his natural Aether so recklessly, attached some underhanded insults in reference to being the Lord Commanders  _ dog _ , and then still had the gall to call him Ser Estinien once Aymeric returned to them.

It is nothing he is unused to. It is what many people thought of him -- a pet, a guard dog to his friend. It was almost a relief when Lucia came to be this in his place, so that he may roam without fear for his comrade among the cut-throats of Ishgardian politics. It did not stop the sentiment, though, and it was pointless to argue against such. Aymeric was the only one that could bring him to heel, after all.

He had slept disturbingly soundly the previous night, drained mind and body from his journey. By Halone’s luck he had not received a concussion, and yet still Abel insisted upon three days of rest at the very least, both for the injuries attained among Nidhoggs’ possession, his self-inflicted aether-drought, and for the pure exhaustion his journey had caused him. Indeed, his head remained foggy, and the tight pull against his skull informed him of the bandage that lay there. His leg, too, was particularly sore. It did not feel confined, and so he hoped it had only suffered superficial damage in his fall.

Voracious hunger curdling in his abdomen had developed into nausea alongside time and the aches he had pushed to the edges of his mind. He was not to be allowed any further potions, but he had at the very least hoped for some bitter herb or sweetened tea that could belly the sharpness from his hunger and ease the soreness from his muscle and joints. His knees especially ached after such long journeys in the cold, no doubt aged beyond their years thanks to his overly-vigorous training. 

And yet, he felt he could afford little time to rest as the enormity of what lay before he began to dawn. Indeed - he was unsure he knew fully what it entailed after so many years of poisonous, reckless pursuit. Not only his life, but that of generations of Azure Dragoons had trailed a bloody path to this precipice, this doorway in which he stood. Where once he had laboured under the assumption peace would be found at the last withering corpse of a dragon, now he knew it would only be found where it had first began - side by side with that which they had once slain. Within the ruins of their past, lay a thread in which they could all lay claim. Such fanciful beliefs that had rotted into a truthfulness. 

No, there was work for him yet, before his rest. No longer the bitter extension of a selfish war, Estinien would make his amends to those who laid the path. Hauchefant, to honour a man he knows would have cherished this new truth, Shiva, whose bravery had tied that first knot, Ysayle, clever, fearless and dedicated in her perusal of justice, and Ratatoskr -- a gentle soul whose legacy he had drowned in blood. There is little comfort he can bring to them at their gravesides, their stories standalone legends without his meager offerings, but it feels as if it is his duty to bear the news to them. A bloody messenger of an age that should never have passed .With the last verse sung, it was time the Azure Dragoon be put to rest. He would honour their stories, their sacrifices, the intents which lay within their hearts, and he would lay down his title in turn - freely destroyed in full knowledge of all its bloody implications.

It is something he would never have considered nigh a year ago. How time had made a fool of him.

His musings were interrupted by a knock at his door. Morning has scare begun its weak light, but business began early in the City. Any number of individuals could have deemed it appropriate to visit his bedside at this hour, courtesy preceding comfort. An unavoidable reality, and one which oft precedes his longing for solitude. Estinien reflects he may be glad to be rid of his title, attain peace and anonymity as a common soldier - or perhaps something less. He would not draw blood on any terms but his own, and the commanding officers of Ishgard were unlikely to untangle themselves from centuries of discrimination. 

Especially when said discrimination was often the difference between life and death.

Sighing and deciding to distance his thoughts from the complicated matters of state, he pulled himself up from his recline, noting for the first time his lack of shirt. His torso bore a few deep bruises, some typical of his armour and some as a result of his… carelessness. It was nothing too inappropriate nor damning, so he called his assent to the knocker.

The door creaked open promptly, and hesitating at its entrance, a stark contrast to last he beheld him, is Alphinaud. The boy is dressed once more in the lighter garb he had arrived in upon the Gates of Judgement - a sure sign he intends to depart today, likely alongside Fleance to wherever the world requires them. Estinien almost envies the sense of clarity of purpose.

“Pray excuse me, I did not expect to be attending your bedside so soon since the last,” He greets cheerily, clicking the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot. It did not escape his notice that he had donned once more the ridiculous boots that added a not-insignificant boost to his height rather than something more practical, despite Estiniens attempt at grounding him.

Young Elezen boys. They are ever the same. 

Although, he himself does not recall ever being quite so  _ short _ .

“You shall be attending nothing here, brat. I am hardly a bed-bound invalid.” He snarked back despite himself, surprisingly gladdened by the visitation. He did not suffer fools lightly, and while Alphinaud gives all the appearance of one, it is only his youth that makes him so. At his core, he is well-principled and kind to a fault - tragedy has made the beginnings of a man in him, but with his own years, he would have matured into that wiseness on his own. It is a rare thing in this part of the world to find one so full of fine qualities - Aymeric is the only other that comes to mind, or perhaps the Warrior of Light, though the latter has little in the way of political nuance. Much like himself, Fleance is a weapon to be pointed by better men.

Or -- at least, they had both shared this impression of themselves. Upon the nostalgic, widened hills of Dravania and the wind-swept ruins of Four Arms in the Churning Mists, they had gathered many stories between each other. Ysayle had scoffed at their self-deprecation, called them self-martyring heroes. The irony had been palatable even then. Three people, hardened to the world, each set on their own missions. No wonder Alphinaud has become so disillusioned among them. It was a bitter-sweet time, and yet one he cannot help but hold close to himself. There is significance in it, symbolism he has yet to unwind from his own clouded mind.

“Then I shall elect to ignore said bed.” Alphinaud replies promptly, settling in a chair besides a desk decorated with hanging herbs, his eyes scanning the dragoon with little effort to hide his concern, “How fare you, Ser Estinien? Ser Aymeric tells me you arrived half-dead upon his doorstep.”

He suppresses another scoff.

  
“Hardly dead. Well-travelled.” He emphasized with a scowl, “I’m afraid the Lord Commander grows soft upon his office.”  _ Although he certainly doesn’t look it. _

“Well-traveled we were on our Journey to call upon Hrasvaelger and you remained well, and yet a scare few weeks from Ishgard and you find yourself injured.” Alphinaud commented pointedly, pryingly.

“... The previous battle had weakened me.”

“And yet that did not stop you. Ser Aymeric mentioned your habitual rejection of care.”

Fury help him. If he were not so soft on the lad he’d have his head already. To think he and Aymeric had discussed him without his presence was… unsettling. Two forces in his life that should not have met. And yet it was only to be expected of the both of them.

“It was necessary,” his words catch at his throat, grate at his tongue as he realises that he cannot find it in himself to lie, “My family's grave. They… I - needed to. Visit. Nidhogg, he -

“Yes,” Alphinaud intercepts softly, “Ser Alberic did mention it.” There is little room for pity on his face. The young Elezen appears conflicted, if only for a moment. It occurs to Estinien he knows little of Alphinauds’ own family. His parents had not come up once, though Estinien remembers weakly that Shalayans considered themselves adults at the hour of their 16th birthdays - perhaps this distance was appropriate to them. The boys of his village were adults once they were able to support themselves, and no sooner. A title to be earned, as it were. He did not know which he thought more suiting.

Before the moment stagnates between them, Estinien makes to move it on, lest other topics come forth from it.

“That old man knows not when to keep his mouth shut.”

The boy laughs a weakly platitude, “I suppose it could not be helped, then. Some paths must be travelled sooner than others.”

The next silence is one shared and quiet, the sounds of Ishgard’s market quarter filtering through the delicately patterned window. Alphinaud's word had struck something within his chest, something old - something, familiar. He could not quite place it, but as he casts his thoughts around that of the younger Elezen, a memory comes to him - one much aged by time and the comparative joviality of youth.

Count Fortemps  _ private _ library had ever been a source of great amusement to Aymeric.

“Why does that sound like…?”

Alphinauds’ cheeks turned abruptly red, and his eyes darted to the door. He stands from his chair as suddenly as he had arrived.

“I must be going, you know, Fleance has -”

“You bastard, that was Fortemps thrice-damned fuckin-”

“- and Chocobo hate to stand out in this cold, you know -”

“- quoting _Thyne Maids Fair_ _fury-fucked Rose -”_

“ - I have no idea what you’re referring -”

“Alphinaud!”

“Rest well!”

* * *

His brother's eyes were empty.

Not closed. Steely blue meets with the blackened air around them, yet it does not focus. Lost. It is a moment of uncomprehending, world-shattering numbness. Estinien cannot look elsewhere. This is nothing else to look for. He has passed his parents on the way in. Their corpses had been… it was clear they were dead. It had drilled a cold, unforgiving precedent into his frantic heart. The bridge beneath his feet vanished, and he found himself alone, suddenly.

The smoke had been choking.

At first, he had not seen the missing half of his brother. At first, he believed him alive. There was such an abundance of blood, he had become blind to it. Karakul screamed shrilly outside the Bough where Estinien had abandoned them, and his brother did not heed it. He lay, quiet and warm, with no words for the shattered boy before him.

It is wrong to look so at peace.

* * *

If Estinien had been thus far relieved to have escaped Aymeric’s inevitable questioning, it was with mounting tension he awaited the coming conversation.

Theirs was a complicated relationship, if not entirely on Estinien’s side, then by merit of Estinien’s actions. His ill-concealed reverence for his oldest friend had only grown in the years by his side, and thusly his frustration in his own feelings, inaction and inability to rid himself of it. He felt as if a starved dog, fed a scrap of affection only to drag his manged body in eternal pursuit of a full meal. The only course of action of any dignity was to avoid Aymeric to the best of his ability, but even in this he could not achieve grace - anger he had never learned to reign boiled over unto Aymeric at the slightest inquiries on his health, his mind. Anger at  _ himself _ , for being so incapable of leaving him to peace.

There had been many sharp words spilled, none deserved, yet they did not even serve to push him away. Aymeric persisted in their friendship, reliable, stable - a place in which to rest. Estinien had been wholly undeserving, and still remained so. He could think of little that would redeem him to be at Aymerics’ side. He was a bitter, spitting, thing. Had been since the day they met, and yet Aymeric appeared to see more. Perhaps, another.

Whose reflection did he happen to cast?

Fruitless wonderings.

Tempered as he now was, the temptation to allow these issues too… disappear was overtly alluring. Aymeric would more than allow for it, and Estinien knew not what he could offer as apology for such erratic, poisonous behaviour. But - Aymeric deserved more, better. An apology, at the very least.

Foreign things to Estinien. Where to even begin such an undertaking?

He thinks now, mournfully, of Hauchefant. The man has ever been outspoken, and offered his counsel freely to even those such as himself. A flame within the dreadful cold Ishgard fostered, one not even the title of bastard could dampen. A fine man. A dead man.

Such it seems history would repeat itself, where good men die in lieu of those who deserve it most.

Left to his own amusement after Abels’ last visit, a scathing exchange questioning each others’ competency until he was deemed unbothered by his head injury, he took to rummaging about the desk by his bed. The room itself was one meant to house apprentices of The Temple Knights Hospitalier, but such private rooms had been assigned as extra medical wards in the days since the battle. He assumes he had been given privacy due to the assumed severity of his previous injuries, and re-housed here again out of convenience to those on the ward.

Due to its previous occupation, an empty bed, a bookshelf, wardrobe and desk shared the space alongside him. These offered some entertainment, and he was able to busy his mind flicking through the contents of tomes on field medic tactics, positioning and a few personal journals of significant battles. Also among the materials lay a tome on flora:  _ Coerthas Grounded.  _ Herbs had not much place in healing the likes of which Estinien received, but those of no status were often not afforded such luxuries, and such a knowledge on medicinal herbs was considered valued knowledge for treating patients of a lower tier. 

Healing magics were told to be exhausting. This fit ill with what realities Estinien had seen on the battlefield, particularly the feats carried out by Fleance, but he was an undoubtedly skilled man. His aether pool may be beyond that of Ishgards healers. Indeed, Estiniens had been so weak that his first placement within the ranks had excluded him all but emergency field medic work, that of the like of bandages and cauterising. Of course, that had all changed when he was chosen by Nidhoggs’ eyes, his latent aether a brimming well - if this remained true now they were supposedly destroyed, he knew not.

Despite all this, or perhaps because of this, he leafed through the volume with a mild interest, finding it contained dried samples of particular plants. Younger still than his shepherding forays, he had accompanied his mother to the woods and meadows in the long months his father had been away with the flock. Although her primary work among the village was in carpentry, it was a necessity of their situation to forage in order to supplement their meals. Estinien had been a deft picker, when he knew what he was looking for, and had a vague and basic knowledge of the seasonal plants required. It had served him well when he accompanied the Karkal to their spring grounds and the smoke-dried ration grew flavourless and unfulfilling. 

It is with this slight knowledge he browses through the pages in search of something recognisable from his homeland. The Eastern Highlands were no unique beast, and many herbs, weeds and fungi alike bring a warm familiarity to him. He would do well to remember them once more, as any edible plant would be only a boon to him upon his next journey - although he suspects the Sea of Clouds and the Churning mists hold fauna worlds apart from what he pursues here. He had never been the scholarly type, and had learnt reading and writing late in his life - it was a frustrating pursuit, but did, perhaps, have some benefit.

Not that he’d tell Aymeric of it. He’d not hear the end of it.

He lands upon the page for a very familiar herb: Furymint. There is no sample for this, but a large block of text on its uses in controlling nausea, curing height-sickness and potential uses in cooking. He recognises the spear-shaped leaves that earned its name-sake, and is ready to flip to the next page when a small scribble of text at the bottom catches his eye.

Eastern Highland Furymint:  _ now thought extinct, this variety was once favoured by noble’s for its mild aroma and unique taste when brewed. _

His mother had often made him such a tea when he was ill. How strange to think he shared a delicacy from a nobles tables -- and felt with them its loss. Extinct. Burned down in the blaze or strangled in the eternal ice. He’d never have that tea again.

Bittersweet. There was a seemingly endless list of things he would not even know to miss.

It is among these contemplations Ayermic visits him at last. He knocks, as is his custom, but is already through the door before Estinien can look up. The Lord Commander is without his coat, dressed down in the black gear beneath his regalia, and appears relentlessly tired as ever. It is enough to make Estinien wonder when the last time he had a full nights sleep was, in a real bed besides. He was famed among his servants to be found asleep in any number of unusual places, always with a document on-hand.

He’d see his friend have one night of rest, if nothing else.

“Make yourself at home,” he greeted, gesturing an arm towards the bare room with a carefully blank expression. 

“I may take you up on such, as it appears you already have,” Aymeric replied with a smile, ignoring the taunt and allowing the door to fall shut behind him. “How fare you, Estinien? Truly. I’ll not have the words of Abel alone.”

“At least sit. You look ready to fall over.” He comments drily, redirecting the conversation as Aymeric makes no move to come in further, “Is Lucia not chasing you to bed? When was your last nights rest?”

Guilt flashes briefly in his friends eyes, and it is with a sigh he sits at the chair beside Estiniens’ bed, angled to face him at the deskside. His hair is ruffled, as if he had been running his hands through it for the better part of the afternoon.

“It is a restless time, my friend. One cannot reorganise a political structure so easily, and the nobles, Fury help me…”

“Demand more than their due?”

Aymeric winces, nodding, “As if the Archbishop left a void they are determined themselves to fill. Any denial is to them, of course, due to my own hunger for power. As if I am to desire power over the betterment of our people… t’is petty. I dare say you wouldn't suffer their talk lightly,” he manages a weak smile in his direction. Estinien remembers well the events to which he refers. Azure Dragoons before him were expected to attend any number of noble events, all of which Estinien had no taste for as they were merely balls and dinners of false-niceties for one political gain or another. The Azure Dragoon had appeared as just another playing card. One which he refused to be sorted into anyones deck.

Except, well.

“Ah, but this is not the place. Captain Whiterun tells me you are well enough to be moved, and I would not allow you another chance to abscond… nor would I condemn you to barracks,” his long fingers dance a moment at the long shirt fabric that lay over his palm, “Would you do me the honour of being my guest? A bedroom is prepared, of course.”

Estinien is no stranger to the Borel House nor its halls. Whence they served, he and Aymeric both lived in the barracks til Aymerics own promotion to Commander, and Estinien found himself treading the path from his quarters to Aymeric often, for unofficial reports and friendship alike. In more recent years it had been a second-home despite his best efforts, and the servants there knew to welcome him. He and the cook in particular had an on-going count to their card games, shared after dinner when Aymeric retired once more to his paperwork.

The Azure Dragoons quarters ever reminded him of his scant few months there at Alberic’s side, fresh with grief. He would not stare at those empty grey walls again. Rather, what little possessions he had remained safe in the barracks, his reputation enough to defend them, or stowed in one such bedroom in the Borel House. As much as he neglected to think of it as his own, and to even acknowledge such a thing would be a scandal enough among the lords, the room contained a small amount of his clothes and his second-favoured repair kit for his armour.

But for Aymeric to invite him so formally? It was a request tinged with a volatile hint of vulnerability, a kindness, a tentativeness so unique to Aymeric. It would be a disservice to their friendship to refuse -- and yet, Estinien hesitated. He felt raw, in these days past. Unlike he had ever felt before. Perhaps it is the absence of his rage, a sudden hole missing in his chest, or duty, his life now free and open in ways he could never have brought himself to consider; for now he is for the first time, unsure.

Which way is forward?

“Is it wise?” he started, dropping his eyes once more to the Furymint before him, its sketching light but sure, “In your position now, tremulous as Ishgard is, is it wise?”

His face feels frozen against Aymeric’s stare. 

“This has not concerned you before. Pray what brings forth this…” Aymeric searches for the word, his brow creased in a shadow of hurt, “This doubt? What words they have now mean less than ever.”

  
“We have fought a long, hard war. I would not have your authenticity doubted by my… my reputation.”

There is little love lost between him and said nobles. Now with the debatable necessity of his station, the immunity his title has once granted him would come into question. And with Lords and Ladies alike searching for any excuse in which to undermine Aymeric… the potential consequences went without saying. Although he does not partake, Estinien is familiar enough with their political games to recognise an obvious weakness. He had ever been a thorn in their side.

Ayermic stands, only to have his hand hang awkwardly between them. He moves to the window side.

“It has been a long war, and once we have both fought on different fronts, but I would look down upon any who question our Azure Dragoon, who alongside the Warrior of Light, brought Nidhogg to his knees. The man who has fought for Ishgard relentlessly his entire life, who earned us, through his own blood, this freedom we now enjoy. There is no better man I would have at my side. There is no better man I would be seen to socialise with. Those who believe otherwise are beyond reason.” He says it all harshly, quickly, with an edge Estinien rarely hears. 

Such proclamations, they are unbeneffting of him, harshly untrue, but Aymeric utters them with such devotion. Such passion. As if dashes once more upon rock, his head tangles around itself, concepts helplessly melting into one another as they grasp for a theadhold in his clouded schools of thought.

He knows not what to say.

“I apologise, my friend.” Aymeric says after a moment, taking a breath, audible in the quiet room, and then sighing with a curious weightyness. “I’m afraid my regard for you has no end. It has ever-vexed me that you believe me as easily swayed as any other noble by idle gossip.” Estinien looks up then, hearing a tinge of sadness in the words, and Aymeric fixes him once more with his gaze.

“You are my closest confidant. I am proud to have your friendship, no matter your title or deeds.” he is sturdy, sure, as he says it. Estinien cannot look away from those eyes.

“Now - need I tell Gaide to cease his preparations for dinner? I dare say he seemed excited to prepare anything that isn't tea. I’m afraid I have been a rather boring man, of late.”

Estinien opens his mouth - to apologise. To recriporiate. To let Aymeric know his deeds are nothing compared to his own, that Aymeric is the shining light of Ishgard, he is the hope, the future, he is not bloodied nor broken nor bitter; he is all the good in Ishgard. All that the people placed their trust in, all that Estinien placed his trust in. That, without him, this city, this country, could do little but eat its own tail, so caught up in years and years of hatred, war and poisonous grief. That Aymeric is the finest man he has ever met. That these honeyed words were invented for him, not the likes of Estinien.

But he cannot.

He never can.

Instead, he agrees to stay, and Aymeric excuses himself to gather his things. The silence he leaves behind is a cowardly one, Estinien its sole inhabitant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was going to write a lot more actually happening, but it turns out i underestimated how much i wanted to pointlessly world build. ive increased the chapter cap to 5 in anticipation of this
> 
> thank you guys for the encouraging comments on the first chapter, i appreciate it so much! i wasnt so sure there were people open to reading ffxiv fic without a WOL, but ive been happy to meet you all. i originally planned this out as a poly fic but my WoL is a horribly underdeveloped himbo so he'll have to wait
> 
> as ever, you can hit me up on [tumblr](http://https://bakugoz.tumblr.com/), share this work from [this post](https://ariswrites.tumblr.com/post/619401784119705600/splintered-kneecaps-chapter-1-estinienaymeric), or even [share it on twitter ](https://twitter.com/insalte/status/1270351709844516865?s=20)(i havent used twitter since i first got it in 2010 so im rusty, sorry). i'd also love to hear any feedback you have for me!
> 
> i'd really appreciate it! thank you!
> 
> [the bookclub discord](https://discord.gg/EfbBeBf)


	3. Chapter 3

He cannot relax here.

The land is beautiful. The ruins of their long-forgotten past ache in the strong winds, dust crumbling away to be carried up and into the aether-bleeding sky, and further still - into the chasm surrounding the Brumes, to lightly coat the skin of those who has forgotten, to shore up among snow upon the doorways of nobles and peasant alike. Particulates of memories once savoured, now sour in their novel graveyards,

Amongst mans’ clumsy fingerprints, dragons live on. Great and small, ancient and young, they thrive in the currents of their instincts, at peace to float within their minds, time abundant before them. They glide amongst the sky, test their teeth upon pillars and curl within the caracesses of buildings - thriving in the places left barren.

No matter what peace Ysayle brokers them, it is terrifying - in a way Estinien will not allow to see the light. The shadow that had haunted him has ever been indistinguishable from all else clawed and scaled, and, as of late, the eye had begun to whisper to him of malcontent. Of blood. Of claw. To take it up once more, to know his will… to fight him. A trap, of course, yet his mind ever blurs when he considers it. He fears it will take him again. He knows he is right to fear it.

But the consequence of that fear? He was borne of it. Forged of it. He will step into this fire and bear its burns upon him, will snuff it out at its very source. And if he is lost to it?

There are others, now, who will pick up his legacy. Betters. Those who will swell into the holes left by his inadequacy. Since Fleance first bested him, the eye has seethed. Boiled. To face two champions… Estinien feels his fear. It is sharp with misery, with an anguish that had long since twisted itself into anger. One he is kin among, horrifying in its familiarity, and yet he cannot fault Nidhogg for it. 

If what Shiva tells is true, his sister was ripped from him.

He remembers his brothers eyes. Open. Steely, yet Estinien had a body to bury. 

He knows not the edges of his rage if more had been done. Knows not what could possibly contain his ire if he had been taken from as Ratatoskr had.

Nidhoggs’ sister was stolen from him. And Estiniens brother from him. And now, Estinien will end this pointless cycle of spilling innocent blood, even if it is at his own cost. He will put Nidhogg down. Cut his eternal, infectious grief, stop it from haunting this land for another thousand years to come. Prevent more brothers, more sisters from such a fate.

Peace has rotted its way into the sordid, filthy, ground. Death is all that remains.

A mercy Estinien would be grateful to receive.

  
  
  
  


* * *

His departure from the ward is with little fanfare. Aymeric departs to gather his belongings, and Abel comes to carry out one last check. He is informed his leg will need some time to heal, a further day than initially expected, and given some tinctures to consume in moderation. He is freed from his bandages and granted a wooden staff to relieve his leg of his weight while walking, a prospect of great amusement to Aymeric upon his return, if the glint in his eyes is anything to be heeded. Still dressed in the breeches he had travelled in and now bearing an itchy shirt and plain shoes, courtesy of the Hospitalier, he is soon ready to depart in a rather undignified fashion.

It is a blessing they do so by evening, as when they take to the streets there are few to witness Estiniens’ limping progression. It eases somewhat his paranoia, too, as his tendency towards hyper-awareness is not to be suppressed, and each person that walks by them is a potential threat to Aymeric. He knows not what he could do to them in this state, but he has two good arms and a general carelessness for his own health -- he would best them, content to once more act as a guard dog at Aymerics’ side. The stabbing incident is ever prominent in his thoughts, and he feels for the reassuring metal against his thigh. 

There is a light snow underfoot and he savours the relative peace of the walk through The Pillars straight paths. At this hour, most are inside their dwellings eating, and the streets are lit by dim, glowing lamp posts. Through the cloud cover above, a few strong stars shine through to spill over smooth, tiled rooftops. It feels private, alien, even as Aymeric murmurs greetings to the guards they pass.

Ishgard has ever been in possession of this -- charm. It is a miserably grey place, the worked stone blending into the stark, flat skies that typically dwell above the city-state; it gives the impression of being trapped within a white-washed colour palette. Paler skin is whiter still, and richer tones wrung of their royal pigments, forced into silvery, sickly undertones. Smiles are weaker, weighed down by the moisture the air bears, a parting gift of either a retreating or arriving mist that wraps the older city below in its wraith-like embrace. It is this which leeches the cheer, the good spirit. The sharp edges, the spikes, the statues of their ancestors… it helps not. A living memorial, fading away amidst the snow.

It is as if he walks within a portrait, one borne of the hands of an artist who had a great deal of time, and a greater deal still of sorrow.

But it is a charm, nonetheless. The same charm as a bedtime tale one knows will end badly. The charm of a battle that cannot be won. Of a yearning that will never end. Sometimes an ache is sweet. Sometimes, it is enough to feel anything. There is a nostalgic attraction to its architecture, though he has never been away for some great stretch of time to warrant it. He certainly does not love the city, but there is something he struggles to place, a belonging amongst the towering spires and uninspired brickwork. 

Perhaps, they are kin in their shared desolation.

They arrive at Borel House in good time, and Aymeric’s lone maid greets them at the entryway, her readiness as the door indicating she had expected them. 

“Did I not say you were to have the evening off, Elvone?”

The maid only smiles sweetly, and replies with a strong common accent “Of course, Ser Aymeric. Lady Lucia instructed I ensure you receive her letter. It seemed of some import, so please forgive my dalliance.” She curtseys, and removes a folded sheet of parchment from her frock pocket. Aymeric receives it gladly. He thanks her, and she takes her leave of the parlour after addressing them both politely, eyes lingering on Estinien’s held support.

“Are we not to be waited on hand and foot?” Estinien comments wryly once she is absent, coming to lean against the side of a rigid, uncomfortable sofa. Aymeric shoots him a look from above the letter, but says nothing, a smile pulling at his lips.

He continues, “If the other Houses were to know, Aymeric de Borel, Speaker of the House of Lords, entertained guests  _ unaided _ ?”

“They would doubtless be scandled.” Aymeric agrees good naturedly, folding the letter in between his hands and tucking it away into his breeches pocket, the tendons of his hands flexing pleasingly as he does so, “Though that appears to be of greater concern to you, than to me.”

The point is punctuated with a quick quirk of the eyebrow, and Estinien feels appropriately scolded. 

“Come, I will inform Gaide of our arrival. Your - ah.” He cuts off, “The bedroom has been prepared, and I requested a bath be ran. I hope you find it is to your liking.”

Estinien murmurs an agreeable noise and Aymeric departs through a smaller door away from the stairways, one the servants typically use to move through the house, purposefully ignorant as ever as propriety in his own home, and Estinien is left alone in the disturbingly clean parlour. It was small, but befitted its luxury well, much of the furniture remaining where Aymerics’ adoptee viscount had once arranged for it to be sat. Still, it was too garnish for Estinien’s own taste, and he suspected his friend felt the same. Pieces such as these cost more than a year of wages for some of their people - to be displayed so… uselessly was almost an insult, but there was little alternative Aymeric could reasonably take in his current position.

They remained slaves to their positions. Aymeric, held by his unshaking faith in people, in justice, in the goodness of the world. And Estinien? The opposites. Chains that would bind him, ones he longs to free from his neck. He is helpless to stop the rising despair at his throat, and swallows against it harshly, eyes closing to see not his brothers. 

… Lucidity had escaped him once more, as it often does. He pulls at the shoulder of his shirt, feels its rough materials between his calloused fingers, and allows himself one long, calming breath. It is as Alberic once taught him. To center himself, when he feels as if his mind is not his own, when time passes too quickly within a thought or memory. It is inescapable in Ishgard, these moments where he is lost to what once was, an anguish that will not be dulled. He lives ever in the past, no matter how much he looks to the future.

But he is in Aymerics’ home now. He must act with some modicum of restraint, must enact some boundaries, must bring himself to - apologise. To act proper, if not for both their sakes. It plagues his mind, just how much he owed. How large his debt had become. It hurt to consider, his shoulder aching under an imagined weight. The least he can do is spare his friend such heavy burdens.

It was his own behaviour that had landed him here. If he was to become better, to truly move forward, it would have to begin here. The dismantling of the Azure Dragoon.

It was not to be an easy task.

Newly tired, he retrieved his bag where he had settled it at his feet and made his way to the guest bedroom in which he often took residence. As promised, it has cleaned, a pleasant lavender smell lingering in the air. Tokens of his last extended stay had been spread out upon a low-set dresser, and he is pleased to see they are all yet accounted for. He unpacks part of his bag, leaving the clothes within for future cleaning, and prepares himself an outfit for the upcoming meal. Then, with much relief, he strips from the itchy, well-worn clothes from the Hospitaliter and gladly hides them away, sparing only the small blade from his busy hands.

The bathroom attached to his room was cramped, but a tub had been dragged from its accompanying cupboard and filled halfway with still-steaming water to present a welcoming sight indeed. How well Aymeric knew him, to request such a thing, and it occurred to Estinien that this was yet another thing to thank him for. Although admittedly, not the one of the most importance. 

He lights a candle upon the seat of the window, wary eye upon the dark skies outside, and gathers together the necessary supplies for his bath.

At the edge of the tub he lay the small dagger he elected to take everywhere with him in absence of his lance, before gingerly lowering himself into the water. He had not had the opportunity to bathe  _ properly _ in some weeks, and the warm water is alike to a balm to his aching body. Estinien allows himself some moments simply to exist in its exquisite embrace. A stolen second of indulgence, one for which he knows his joints will thank him for, if not the rest of him. Then, it is only a matter of scrubbing himself down with the provided soap. The general grime falls from his skin in a manner pleasing to the part of him concerned with appearance, and he cannot deny the satisfaction of the symbolism in it - the shedding the dirt of Ferndale, a cleansing of the old. 

And yet, he is no lighter for it.

Clean, and beginning to feel the tendrils of hunger grip him, he climbs from the bath and gives himself a curt drying, eager to be clothed once more. His scars catch his eye as he passes the vanity in the bedroom, but he refuses to pause before it, knowing well the consequences. He is a scarred man, as many are in Ishgard, but the sight brings him no honour, no satisfaction in battle survived. They tell only of his indiscretion. His anger. How it would consume him in combat, til all that he cared for was a carcass underfoot, no heed paid to himself, let alone those who fought at his side. Countless men have likely fallen due to his own bloodlust and carelessness. Countless more dragons, too, as he could not surface from his own perpetual drowning for such a time as to hear the truth so plainly before him.

There was no pride in that. No honour.

These were the scars of a fool. 

He covered them gladly.

It is a relief to be clean, clothed and eager at the prospect of food. Travel is a weary thing, one he both enjoys and dislikes in equal measure, there being a certain merit of never belonging in one place too long. Sunrise in the wilderness is beautiful and cold, the people kind and cautious, and the pure variety of what and who he meets is a gift to the eyes. It steadies ones’ soul, to know how much is out there. It breaks him free of his mind.

But cleanliness is hard to come by, and a decent meal harder still. These are the comforts of a home, no matter how temporary, and he would not take them for granted.

Silvery hair spills down past his shoulders, damp and cloying into thick strands. He runs his hands through it messily and pulls it all together at the back of his head, having no time to allow it to dry freely. A small length of leather secures it, borrowed from the lacing of his shirt, at the price of a deepened V at his neck. He looks… acceptable. Tired, ragged, but no longer the wild man he must have resembled, covered in blood and lost in hollowed thoughts. He avoids his eyes, regardless, drinks in the dullness of his skin, the thinness of his lips. 

  
He has come to resemble a stern man. One weathered in such a way that those who had known him as a child would struggle to recognise.

A short time later, belongings packed away where they are safe, he descends to the dining room. The door is ajar, and a warm light plays at its toned wood. A pleasant heat greets him as he enters, dwarfed only by the warmth Aymeric smile causes to take root at the base of his ribcage. He is dressed down, nestled at the head of the table in a comfortable sprawl some would call unbecoming, but which is ambrosic in its inelegant familiarity. This is the side of Aymeric saved for Estinien. Free of the stiff upper lip of those who think themselves better.

_ His _ Aymeric, and the thought alone is guilt-inspiring.

This smile, too, is his. Wide and unchecked, genuine as one can only be between two such people. It is too much, almost, such so an answering smile is upon him before he can think better. Such an expression is mapped across foregin land.

“It is a relief to see you in better cheer, and washed besides. I thought the grime permanent, this time.” Aymeric discloses to him, a quality of cheer rising beneath his words. He lowers his cup while speaking, likely dripping in unbearable sweet syrup.

“I’d thank you if I did not know better.” He replies, reigning his smile into his usual smirk and pulling out a chair to Aymeric’s right, where a steaming cup sits waiting. Aymeric never tires of this particular line of joking, a hold-over from their training days.

“What would our battalion think, to see you wash? They’d drop their swords in shock.”

“I washed,” Estnien engaged him, an annoyance now so aged it held no real intent playing at his tongue, “But there was hardly a point between patrols.”

Aymeric scoffs, “Tell that to them. My nose had sadly grown accustomed. I could hardly smell a rotting corpse, having shared a tent with you.”

“Noble dandies, all of you.” The response is met with a chuckle, and Aymeric once more leans back in his seat, eyes dragging across Estinien as he takes his first sip. Coffee. As expected.

“Ah, but it is truly good to sit with you once more, old friend. I had hardly a moment after Nidhoggs’ fall… and when I heard you had fled the ward already,” he sighs, “It was expected, but no less painful. I had thought you lost to me, if Alphinaud and Fleance had not endeavoured so… I am ashamed to have thought you dead, yet I had not the bravery to ask it of anyone, let alone my own person. It is good to have you before me. I am glad you could be spared.”

He pauses heavily, something dark beneath his eyes. To have caused him such pain - his heart clenches.

“I asked them to kill me.” Estinien admitted into the rim of his cup, something heavy coming undone as he fought against the urge to keep such truths to himself, to free Aymeric of this pointless guilt. “I would have destroyed Ishgard. I would have killed you. Everyone.”

“You did what was best for the people.”

The fire crackles, a log shifting into the flames embrace.

“I dare say I might have let you, if it had come to a face to face confrontation.” Aymeric murmurs, “The arrow…”

“Never would have hit me.” Estinien confirms, lips tight. He had known, of course, even through the malice clouding his very sight. It had only been a distraction, one dangerous enough to have prevented further carnage, but one void of killing intent. Aymeric did not miss his dravanian marks. But to think Aymeric would have allowed himself to be killed at Estiniens’ hand, driven by the dragons’ rage, his dominating rancor… it was sickening. Angering. That this man who would give his all for Ishgard would abandon such loyalty, would not fight for his  _ life  _ simply because he could not slay what monster wore his face.

But in his shoes, Estinien knows not if we would be capable of the self-same murder.

He grips the cup tighter, discomfort swirling in his stomach. He hates conversations such as these, yet it is all people want of them - rightfully so, but the ache is present no matter. He has spent an age barricading off such parts of himself, locking them away so they might never see the light. But the war is over. There is no need for such isolation. Boards must be pried, doors unlocked, swollen, painful things brought to the glare of the sun. If only his mind were to believe the same.

Some speak of a dragon sickness. An illness of war, where the wounds of such things never heal. Where they bleed and ferment, turn bitterer and bitterer in their age. Tales of men and women turned against those they love by a war that, for them, never ended. Cast out of Ishgard, or housed by a loving relative, there is little in between, but he has seen it. Again and again in those who attempt to fight it, with drink, with food, with yet more battle - as if it can be drowned out. As there will ever be anything more profound to their lives, than those moments of static, vapid, horror.

The deadened gaze of the child from the dragon shelter pulls at him.

He knows it well, for he is one of them. For so long he has refused to let it take him, persisted as if the nightmare is still upon him, one constant, aching moment stretched over countless years. A pathetic refusal to stay still, to let it brew within him, as if he is the one to control such things. It seems, it will soon catch up, end this farce. His thoughts of late had been melancholy, pining and full of vile, dark, dread. There is little he can do that does not bring him back to where he first saw death. 

His heart is haunted so.

Abruptly, he realises he has been staring grimly at Aymeric’s shoulder, and his jaw is stiff in a morbid downturn that is surely visible. The only indication time had passed at all is the tea at Aymerics’ side, almost empty, a small slither of syrup curled at its base. 

“Such things should not be thought on while sober.” Aymeric amends, seemingly acknowledging his return to reality, “We are fortunate such friends were with us, then, to do what we would not. Such fools should not be trusted.” Aymeric grimaced at his own joking comment, tone light, “Sentimental to a fault, is what the viscount would say. She thought you my balancing counterpart - my reality check.”

The change in topic is not subtle, but no less appreciated, and Estinien feels himself relax his hold on his drink, his jaw falling from its firm grasp.

“How disappointed she would be to see us now.”

“Quite.” His friend said agreeably, as Gardia at last made his entrance, food-laden trolly in tow.

The meal goes as expected, they settle once more into their easy back and forth on the goings-on within Ishgard, and Aymeric is particularly amused by the revelation of Alphinaud having read Count Fortempt’s expansive collection of  _ mature  _ tomes, one he insists are for collectors sake. Estinien learns of small reforms beginning in the city proper, of particular interest the building of new housing to alleviate the clutter of the Brumes and the establishment of a larger market district to cater for their Eorzean trading. It is leaps and bounds forward from where Ishgard had lain scant weeks prior, seemingly locked for resources and unwilling to expand for its peoples sake, fear of a dragon attacking cowering builders and nobles behind their doors.

It is gladdening to hear of this frozen city at least give way to change. That it might become a visage of a past nightmare, rather than a current.

As the night passes, these worry do so too. Wine drunk, it is all Estinien can do to admire his oldest friend. Time has not dulled his beauty in the slightest, merely aged him finely to appreciation. He had grown into the sharp curve of his jaw, and while his eyes had once appeared too large for his face, a portrait of saintly innocence, they fit him handsomely, now. Their slight curves hide the pristine sapphires of his pupils like a secret, one that falls only on those who would meet his gaze. Estinen finds it is impossible not to be privy to it, that he is drawn to meet their lingering contemplation time and time again. 

It is intoxicating to drink in, and he finds himself lost in each and every feature as it shifts and sharpens through amiable words. The straight line of his nose, the definition of his cheekbones, the fine rosing of his lips and the soft tilt of his eyebrows - all things Estinien had spent an embarrassingly thorough amount of time considering. And while Aymeric did not see as much action on the field of battle, his frame remained slim, and from Estiniens’ reckoning, firm. He had supported him, afterall, and at a head taller than him, it took some strength. Some power. 

He was in no illusion to the desires of his baser instincts.

Eventually, blessedly, Aymeric retires from him early, claiming paperwork and the temptation of too much wine. It is all Estinien can do to watch him go without spilling out his  _ appreciation _ there and then. Nothing good good could come of it -- and yet his friend had uttered such sweet words. Such devotions to him. His drunken mind fervently wishes it were something more than the affection they had always held for one another, an affection he failed still to reveal back, in both fear and an overwhelming incapability. 

He was made to  _ kill _ . Kind words suit him ill, trip at the fangs he bears, dry up before they reach his lips.

Yet he cannot help but dream them. He hopes Aymeric knows that Estinien holds him in high regard, that there is no-one more precious to him. That this whole Fury-damned nation would not be worth a single gil without him. He hopes that Aymeric can read this in him, in his willingness to share his time, his space, but that he reads no more. No further.

He is as hopeless as a fawn-eyed maiden, and he slumps onto the table before him just as Gaide appears, cards in hand.

“A game, Ser?”

* * *

“What is your name?” Alberic stands before him, flesh twisted around the armour of the Azure Dragoon, its metal spikes shifting in and out of focus before his eyes. The spires of Ishgard in one moment, and the core of a dragon's shattered tooth in the next. Stained with blood, and then reflecting back a sun, a moon, a burning eye. He is smiling, smiling, smiling.

“Estinien, Ser.” 

“Another of Nidhoggs’ brood.” Purrs a dark voice to his right. He turns, to be met with the darkening skies above Maidenmere, bloody in their remembrance. Among the clouds are dark dots, whose wings come into focus as they draw nearer at a speed he can only blink to comprehend, monstrous as they heave themselves across the sky. Dread builds sickly in his chest. He has been here, before.

“Shall we kill him?” Asks Alberic. A dragon roars, and his hands feel - abruptly - wet, warm. Blood, of course, from his own bleeding chest. Blood, and gore, and his brother meets his eyes from between his fingers.

“I should have lived.” he tells him. Estinien pulls his hands apart, makes to reach out to him, but the blood splatters from his palms. It stains his brothers’ pupils in a ruby red. They glow like that of Nidhoggs below him. Empty. Vacant.

Angry.

“I should have lived.” He tells Estinien, face twisting to accommodate fangs which split at his pallid skin.

_ “Not you _ .”

The dragons descend, karkal scream.

  
  


* * *

  
  


He wrenches himself from his bed in a sweating, heaving mess. In his ears, he is witness to a roaring, one that consumes him, that rattles as his ears which every beat of his hammering heart. He is shaking. Trembling, like a foal before the slaughter. Before he can think of the irrationality of it all, he is up, feet stumbling beneath him, to press against the window.

The moon is unshrouded, and as he searches, no dots appear before its glowing face. The night is still, punctuated only by the lazy spiral of late-night fires from thick chimneys. 

Safe. But he checks his room, anyway. As if dragons would hide beneath his bed. As if he is twelve once more, a child wandering among Alberics’ chambers, searching for that which stalks his dreams. His nightmares. A humiliating, fever-driven fear.

He is no more rested than he had been hours prior. Worse, the wine ached sweetly at his temple, and andrelaine played at the lump in his throat. He would sleep no more in such a state. The rising sickness at his stomach agreed, and it is all he can do to collapse once more upon the messy bedsheets. He raises a hand to his face, stares down the blue veins that surf beneath his skin, diving deep at the joining of his wrist.

Is this what he is to be?

Biting at his tongue, he brings his other hand to still the wracking tremor. It does little good. The copper at his tongue is sharp, taunting. His brothers’ death is one such memory that will never leave him. He knows not why the bodies of his parents had not cut so deep, perhaps because he never looked upon their faces, believed they lived, had hope crushed from his fragile lungs at the wavering dream they might yet breathe. Or, perhaps the knowledge that his brother had been a soldier, capable of holding his own. Ever he had been their families protector - and still, he had been torn in two like so much fodder; his loves, his passions, his hates - non considered by indiscriminate maw.

Little Estinien, content to let others die for him. Fight for him. Such weakness disgusts him, vile and acrid and sour in his mouth. But he carries it nonetheless, this corrosion that eats at him from within his very veins. Through holes in his heart, ragged perforations in his arteries, he leaks this guilt. 

The heavy truth.

All those years past, now more than half a lifetime ago, he should have been the one to die.

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

A wind blows, soft and sweet, and carries to him the scent of freshly baked bread. The bakers’ daughter, Freya, has opened the windows to the small, stone building. Her long skirts danced alongside her legs as she hummed gently, hands busy at the latches.

His brother had paused in his training, sword in hand, to watch with rapture.

“Do you think ‘pa will let us get some sweet buns?” Estinien asks, ignoring the delicate pink overtaking his elders face. It was no longer fun to tease him, when all he did was stare and mumble under his breath, shy as a doe upon the moors. He wouldn’t even play fight him, anymore, overtaken by what his mother called  _ love _ .

Their mother had also said the  _ boy _ needed to grow a backbone and ask Freya to the midsommars celebration, but that had only made him blush so much he refused to accompany them to pick flowers for the dye mongerer. 

Love is no fun, Estinien had decided, so he’d fix it. Maybe then he’d show him how to swing his sword, like he’d promised.

“Maybe you could buy them?”

His brother looks down at him, eyes warm, he says,

“Sure, Esti. But you can only have one after you bring in the Karkal.” Scruffs his hair, drops his sword, and doesn’t listen to Estinien’s whining complaints.

It’s the last time he sees him alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I over did the whole angst thing this time, and I'm not super happy with the quality, but I've re-read bits so many times my brain cant process them. I may come and pass an editing comb later but I promise I won't change anything drastic. Feel free to point out any mistakes present, though
> 
> As ever, you can hit me up on [ tumblr](https://bakugoz.tumblr.com/), share this fic [here](https://ariswrites.tumblr.com/post/619401784119705600/splintered-kneecaps-37-15k-words), tweet it [here](https://twitter.com/insalte/status/1272551277642297348?s=20), and please tell me your thoughts!
> 
> I really appreciate feedback of any kind, comments really make me day and I think my partner might be sick of hearing about them, but I cant express how much they mean to me! Thank you!
> 
> [the bookclub discord](https://discord.gg/EfbBeBf)


	4. Chapter 4

Estinien is thankful for his deep sleep in the infirmary, as it promises to be his last for some time. There is no more rest for him that night, and though he hears the shifting from within Aymeric’s office, he has not the energy to join nor berate him his late (or, perhaps early) hours. He requires his solitude, for now, to carefully numb his thoughts and contemplate the empty nothing of the bedroom ceiling.

It does not last long. He bemoans the loss of his armour, if not only for its use in keeping busy his hands. The dagger he bears is small, and he can barely squeeze an hour out of languishing it in attention, his kit sprawled out above the bed covers. He almost considers fetching his sword, an ancient relic among the barracks, but thinks better of it in his state. He soons finds himself upon the balcony, weak morning sunlight his accompaniment as he uses the back of a dulled knife to scrape the dirt from his boots. They are sturdy, designed to be worn beneath his armour, and their unusual shape lent them to gathering dirt in numerous grooves. He would be glad to have a covering for them once more, come a time it feels befitting.

The restlessness beneath his skin will not allow for such an undertaking, however. He has no intention to don once more the armour of a dragoon, and commissioned armour would take a time to be crafted, as he would settle for no less than quality. It left him with little options in the face of his upcoming travel, but he would make for the markets no matter - leathers were a good protection as any on a journey such as this, one he hopes to be free of violence. He would insult not the memories of Ysayle, Shiva and Ratatoskr by attending their graves dressed in the robes symbolic of murder.

But there is yet the matter of the remaining horde. The ones that drove those families to make use of the shelter they had shared. He had, then, sworn to slay them - but now he may have cause to delay it. It would do him no good to chase the tails of dragons unarmoured, nor to kill them without gathering more information. The folks of Tailfeather, a chocobo-taming town on the edges of Dravania, may have some leads and he means to pass that way soon.

His thoughts turn then to what he must gather from the markets for such a excursion, and he muses the creation of a list, with consideration of his current itinerary. It is within this time, a unexpected knock lands upon his bedroom door.

“Come in.” He calls, realising quite suddenly he is dressed only in the tunic he slept and a pair of relaxed breeches, and that, having not acquainted himself with a mirror this morning, likely looked as bad as he felt. While he wishes he could present himself better, he hates more the necessity of politeness, of people waiting on him. Vanity is unbecoming.

The door opens inwards, and Aymeric presents a welcome sight. He wears a black undershirt, belted at his mid, and a non-descript pair of trousers. Despite the early hour, his hair is not a strand out of place, and his eyes catch the light spilling from the balcony in a fashion Estinien would describe as angelic.

T’is not fair for a man to look such a way.

“Good morning,” he greets gamely, casting a look towards the messy bed, strewn with numerous belongings, “Was the bed not to your liking?”

Estinien hummed beneath his breath, “For sleeping? No.” and relaxes against the stone fencing behind him. Cold air trickles past his ear on a slight breeze, and he cannot help but feel centered despite his tiredness. Stable upon the ground he sits.

Perhaps it was the peace Aymeric brought. The back and forth, the safety net he always provided hand-in-hand with an understanding, undeserved. It balances tensouly with his unsung heart, and yet it is in these small moments, dressed down and free from expectation, does it tip towards comfort. Home. A belonging made.

It goes unspoken, but it is unusual for Aymeric to visit him here. To enter anothers’ bedchambers is -- intimate, even within Aymeric’s own manor. They have shared each other's space often in the training ranks and yet this crossed a small line in the sand in Ishgardian decency, ones such Aymeric seemed set on destroying altogether.

Aymeric does deign his words a reply and simply enters the room, coming to lean against the balcony fencing at his side. His lean figure cuts a striking sight, but his eyes search ever downwards, past the gardens stone walls, towards the beginnings of a morning bustle. It is too early for many folk, but some have begun to prepare their stalls or hasten to the gates to be allowed passage to Coerthas - few mill outside the Airship landing in wait of ships, now tentatively allowing travel to cities such as Ul'dah.

“You did not sleep.”

He runs a knife down the sole.

“Nor did you.”

He huffs, “No.” and casts a glance at Estinien. “Though I have made the effort to appear otherwise, which is more than I may say for some.”

He can certainly attest to that. Although, the darkness under his eyes remains like smudges of ink, a near-permanent feature of his friends by now, and an easily spotted mark of yet another night spent working.

“Lucia giving you trouble?”

“It was her letter, last night.” Aymeric grimaces, “Marked important, but it requested only that I sleep. She is quite forward.”

“She is what she must be.” He comments distantly, carefully busy with his chosen task despite any further gouging being quite unnecessary. Lucia was only driven to such extremes due to Aymerics’ own, stubborn, work ethic. If one would call a work ethic such a drive that complex him through full days without sleep nor nutrients, with the exception of tea. It had been relieving enough to see him eat fully the night before, his cheekbones harrowed with more than fatigue, but Estinien had not the energy to insist he sleep. He were not such a hypocrite, nor would he undermine the force of nature that Lucia represents.

She is suited well to act as Aymerics’ hand of justice. It is an ever greater commendation that she endeavours to care for his health, as so few people do.

The sun grows stronger, but remains pale as time passes lazily. He has moved now to make rough stitches where his travelling bag has begun to fray, yet he is woefully unskilled and his own blood appears to act more as a glue than the stitches themselves. It is something, though, and he is ever insistent that he be capable of upkeep his own gear. It is arrogance to expect it of others, and a life half-lived free of a city and all its convenience has taught him well. He is lost amongst the running thread before Aymeric once more reminds him of his presence.

“I can not help but inquire, my friend,” Estinien heart sinks, and he stops in his work at Aymeric’s tone, hushed, as if he knows he should not ask, “into what happened to your armour. It is only that I am quite sure you were wearing it, whence you departed.”

He feels heavy, suddenly. If allowed, he would think no further on the topic. But - it is Aymeric. He is deserving of this pittance, at least. The needle pricks at an old wound, and he stares hard at the darkening of his finger tip.

“Upon my awakening, I journeyed to Ferndale.” his tongue is sticky with blood, the words stiff and short, “There I laid Gae Bolg and my armour to rest.”

Besides him, Aymeric inhales deeply. The significance of such a thing would not escape him, not when it is so deeply embedded in Estinien’s own identity.

“For what reasoning?”

“I would not wear the blood of those we now call allies.” It is a weak answer, of course, avoiding the true question, but an answer nonetheless. Aymeric seems to know this, and pressed him no further, instead returning to his quiet contemplation of the city before him. The snow is melting, slow in the heatless sun, but reveals the rare sight of pathways in the garden below. 

Soon, they break their vigil in pursuit of breakfast, simple breads and fruits, and Aymeric begs his leave to attend the House of Lords. He knocks Estinien stick with his foot on the way out, and the telling smirk he can see pull at the sides of his face as he leaves lets him know it was very much intentional. He scowls after the fact, bread still in his mouth. In his drunkenness, he had foregone his walking aid the night previous, and it ached something fierce on the morn. For any other injury he would have damned any such medical ‘necessities’, but unfortunately the well-being of his legs was of concern to him. He would be sure they healed correctly, as it was bound to go slower with his own energy so depleted, even if the stick was a humiliating constant. 

_But only for today._ If he deemed himself healed enough tomorrow, then it would be another story.

  
The sun from this morning was not to be, the cloud cover that was ever Coerthas’ sole companion blew in from an eastern storm, dark and foreshadowing a rare rainfall upon the city proper. Estinien was free to roam the house in its masters absence, and thus had set upon the Borels’ private library. It was smaller than that of the likes of the Fortempts’, seemingly stocked with mainly dated volumes provided by Borels’ of past eras, Aymerics own hand light in its orchestration.

And yet, there some newer tomes still to be found alongside missing books in the shelves where they likely were squirreled away into Aymerics’ office or bed chambers. It is these novel ones Estinien drinks in the titles of slowly, willfully, as time passes between the shelves. Many such were updated notes on Ishgardian culture, books on house heritages, negotiation, strategy, and, as only to be expected of Aymeric, large but devastatingly boring journals on the customs of their Eoerzan neighbours. He flicked through them lazily, searching chapters and summaries and skimming to hand-drawn likenesses. 

The storm had gathered to the edges of the city, its rain first catching at the house as the afternoon began its sprawling hours. Estinien settles at the window-seat in Aymeric’s office, one preferred by the man himself as his own desk is uncomfortable by design, to stop him slipping into unexpected naps. It is so very _Aymeric_ to create such a practical solution and then make it irrelevant. But it is indeed a fine place to sit, and before opening his found treasure - an admittedly old journal of flora, albeit dusted dutifully, one he hopes might be able to better inform him in the arts of foraging - he cracks open the window the smallest fraction.

Raindrops are heavy, burdened things. Their crashing descent is pleasing to the ear, and the distant rumble of thunder brings forth the taste of ozone upon his lips, an excitement palatable in the air. He never appreciated rain for what it was when he was travelling, or sheltering miserably in the open, but here, inside, it was a different story. It was a soothing thing, the sweet scent of petrichor reaffirmingly earthy, stable. It lightened the heart, to be warm and sheltered when the world around one was not.

A perfect backdrop in which to read these dreadfully bland explanations. But he does so with diligence, noting on a piece of parchment rough shapes and their preparations, lest he forget on the road. More than anything, it is a distraction to pass the day and to keep bitter thoughts stabled. Regrettably, the journal has no mention of the Sea of Clouds, supposedly written when a venture to such a place was folly, but its notes on Dravania are useful enough to make up for its lack of much else. 

The lightning is soon overhead, and he takes a moment to lean back against the cushioned wall and stare out at the writhing heavens above. An early dawn approaches, and the storm clouds colour with a curious shade of red because of it, as if lined in an ancient blood. The flashing sky illuminates the skin of his hands, weathered and scarred, and he thinks of the blood in his hands in a nightmare. They had been smooth, then. A childs. It is headache inducing, this pain. A remembrance that doggingly follows his every thought.

A million scenarios and more he had lived in the days following their deaths. How, if his brother had still held that sword, he could have miraculously faced off every dragon. How he could have lived - how their parents could have lived. If Estinien had not asked for those Fury-damned sweet breads. If he had not been so naive, so young, so weak. 

If Alberic had not retreated…

It would have been worse. It would have been the entirety of Coerthas paying the price, and not just Ferndale. 

He had never apologised. There had never been any reason too. And yet, Estinien knows not if he would forgive him, and means never to know. The man had been as a father to him. He loved him, owed much to him. But for some months now, he had not been able to bear the sight of him. It lies in his lap to mend this bridge, if it is to be mended at all, but he finds there is much to unravel before he can even think of it. And that, it is all so overwhelming, so incomprehensible, that it is impossible to remain calm. His instinct is to avoid it, to leave the pain for another day, yet it holds no such qualms towards him.

If only there were a book on the mind. Some deeper understanding to be had. Then, perhaps, scholars would be good for something more than their self-righteous ramblings.

Abruptly, the door to the office creaks, and Estinien is reaching for a lance he does not have before he can fully process the situation. His eyes dart to the open window, he tenses where he sits -- and then remembers where he is. 

When Aymeric walks in, one hand playing idly with his dangling earring, the other grasping a collection of papers, Estinien is very carefully relaxed. The tiniest sliver of adrenaline spins a tremble down his fingers, but he tucks them beneath the book in his lap. He is fine. He is fine. 

“Is it that late already?” Estinien drawls, and it is Aymerics’ turn to be surprised, near dropping his papers in his haste to turn. The sky had indeed turned dark, and his back ached from inactivity. Time lost once more, it seemed.

“Estinien!” He exclaims, a delightful flush rising to his cheeks,“I did not expect to find you here.”

Estinien shrugs wryly, and Aymeric appears to gather himself, continuing his path to his desk to set down his load, “Pray what brings you here? Surely not to _read_ ?” And yet his eyes are now set on the book and parchment in Estinien’s hand, clear as day. He had not intended to be caught in the act, Aymerics amusement being _very_ much expected. 

“I _can_ read.”

“It is not that I believe you can’t, only that-”

“Yes, yes.” Estinien waves his hand, “T’is only a book of herbs, no Fury-damned volume on _Ishgardians most trifling gossip_.”

This seeks to bewilder Aymeric further, “Then to cook? Estinien -”

“Yes. I plan to cook a great feast, and the secrets are hidden within this tome of -- Halone above, Aymeric! What must you think of me.”

Aymeric laughs at his beseeching expression, and it is all Estinien can do not to become caught up in the beauty of it all. The softness, the tilt of his eyes, the gentle lift to the corners of his mouth -- and the way he looks to him after, as if to share in it.

“You are truly a refreshment.” He tells him, a secret for him alone. There is a pause where, within in it, Aymeric holds his gaze, a quiet static buzzing behind Estinien’s own. He cannot help but feel there is a meaning to be found here - in these proclamations, these charged seconds that crackle betwit them. His friend has been intense, thoughtful, lost but peculiarly intimate in these days of his return. There was a sharpness to his gaze, the way he took Estinien in, the possessive, saccharine language… typical of Aymeric, but not with such _intent_. Perhaps the closeness of death, or perhaps something other, something foreign, had caused this. 

Ishgard could be different, now.

He finds there is heat in his face to consider it, and he looks to the window, where small ricochets of water mist upon his exposed ankle. Fantasy. Projection. He would be rid of these shadows, these forms which take shape only to mock him further.

“T’is hardly a compliment, knowing your company of late.”

“I’m afraid you would say that no matter my company.” Aymeric sighs, and Estinien hears the grate of his chair against wood, the whisper of papers where they come to slide between each other, “but truly - you are not one for scholarly pursuits.”

A question, phrased as a mere statement of fact, and Estinien has been facetious enough.

“I plan to depart once more.” He says, and there is a quiet nothing in return, “I would not depend on rations alone.” It is nostalgic, a wish borne of a childish memory. To twist stems between his fingers, for berries to rest along his palm, to bear small scrapes and stains from thorn and burst leaf. The longing for it is sweet against his tongue, a beckon towards a peace long lost, but there is practicality, too. Ysayle had brought them sweet berries, Fleance meats, and thus their rations had extended towards their later journeys, the dried and salted meats becoming essential crutches upon sparser lands. 

“So soon?” It is hardly a murmur, a rumble of thunder nigh-undercutting him. Estinien does not look over, though there is great temptation to do so, and instead fixes his eyes upon the sky.

It flashes before him, the storm drawing to a head.

A sentiment best not thought upon.

“Then,” Aymeric coughs lightly, “this book is adequate? I am afraid I have not stocked my private collection in some time.”

“Not so for the Mists and beyond.” And he turns it over in his lap, the cover worn but well-cared for. Books from before history was neatly re-arranged were long since rotten, or burned by the church’s zeal to control - he had merely hoped a last visage of knowledge would have held on, but if so, it is admittedly unlikely to be found in the Borels’ collection. 

“You mean to travel to the Mists?”

Of course. Estinien had told him nothing of his plans. Like blood from a stone, and the resentment of his own character has his jaw clenching shut.

“To Ratatoskrs’ grave, among others.”

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Aymeric shift, senses a gaze upon his head, but he is ever the coward. To meet those eyes? Of a sky so blue it is as if the eternal winter had never fallen? Estiniens’ strength waned dangerously after the last. Aymeric held within him a soulful meaning, a purposefulness. It was difficult to confront, and in the wake of such sweet sentiments… the regard was painful. Warmth blossomed once more, slunk down his spine, and he swallowed down a lump that had crept up his throat, slow and tarred.

“... These sins belong to all of us, not you alone.” Aymeric says, gently, finally, “We are all guilty of the blood Ishgard demanded, both dragon and our own. It is a heavy mantle for one to bear.”

  
“None as much I.” Estinien counters bitterly, harshly, “I would - I would make my own amends.” Selfish, that the one who murdered her brother would kneel at her graveside, would bring his shroud of blood to her final resting. And yet it is a penance to be paid, symbolic in its own right. He is divided on it - the road shall decide for him, once he is upon it.

“I, too, would leave my blessings with her.” Aymeric replies, seemingly content to allow Estiniens’ assertion free, “For too long has Ishgard played ignorant in its role.”

Surprised, Estinien looks up from his contemplation, and Aymeric’s face is downcast, serious in its faded parlour. Of course - of course Aymeric would be the one to feel genuine empathy, regret, when all he has ever done is stride for change. For understanding, for an end to this Fury forsaken war. Of course he would see himself as guilty as Estinien, his hands as red.

They had slayed dragons together. Had treated them as beasts, cursed their names and found comradery in their deaths, yet it is not the same. The legacy Estinien carries, the lives that had slipped for the end of his lance, the darkness that plays at his heart… it is unforgivable. Unbridgeable. Where Aymeric strode for forgiveness, Estinien for revenge, and now that it is his, he would writhe in its bitter and rotten aftermath. He would not have spared Nidhogg, not for the sake of peace. He is sickly glad of his slaying, pleased with it in such a way it would turn his friends stomach to consider. 

But the words do not form in his mouth in a way he can speak - bites at his tongue, instead, allows the anger to sizzle at his gums, licking as if a flame.

“... But there is much to be done. I can not rightly leave the people now.” Aymeric confesses, “Perhaps… ah, it is much to think on.” His friend rubs at his face, the angle of his shoulders allowing the flickering light of the candle to spill across angular cheeks. He appears older, somehow, and it aches at strings of his heart, pulling at the angle of his ribs in a sweet, painful tug.

How many years has he spent at his friends’ side, useless in comfort, in cheer? He is only witness to Aymeric self-assembly, his weary, practiced movement as he turns back to his papers, shakes the fatigue from his shoulders. Recovered, on the surface, with no help of Estinien, with the full expectation Estinien would have nothing more to add, no words to extend forth. Tired, starved, and yet Estinien is too caught up within himself to offer his friend a moment of respite, an encouraging word towards bed, a soft affirmation of morality, the sacrifice of his path.

What words he has for Ayermic he cannot yet utter. Not the ones he means the most. He knows not what grips him now, but the sentiments stumbles out before his tongue can move to catch them, before he can consider it fully -

“I could stay for a time.”

Aymeric freezes, skin a white-washed bone where it tightens against his pen.

_You need not to be alone here._

“... If you would wish it. I would stay.”

His nails sink into rough knuckle, his teeth to soft marrow. Thunder rumbles, dark and deep.

  
“My friend…” It is soft, a melted candle wax flowing against his aching chest , “I could never cage you.”

Aymeric resumes his writing, and Estinien closes the window at his side -- the rain had dampened his cheeks.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You stand for all that is twisted and broken of Ishgard. And for what gain?” Ysayle challenges, her fine features deformed into a pastiche of anger, the winds whipping at her long locks as if she carried a Gods fury within her.

“Vengeance.” 

“By furthering the cycle?” Her voice was disbelieving, and she tightened her hand around the bag she carried at her back in ill-concealed anger, “It were not all dragons that harmed you.”

“But it shall be I who harms them.” He replied smugly, teeth bared in an ugly grimace. At his side, Fleance barely hides a laugh, and slaps his shoulder with his usual flagrant over-familiarity.

“Enjoying yourselves?” Ysayle turns away roughly, striding out to lead.

“He is unbearable. A monster.” 

“They say the same of you.” He shoots back, admittedly pettily, while she remains in spitting range. She acts as if she cannot hear him, and Estinien feels somehow that this win is naught to be proud of.

“You’re a right prick,” Fleance informs him casually, smiling up at him, “but you’re a funny one. Maybe you could teach Alphinaud some of that?”

Behind them, struggling to keep up, an affronted “Hey!” can be heard.

* * *

  
  


Their dinner is not free of this new-found tension, but bearable as friends who know each other well. There is wine, and pie, and though Estinien does not sleep fully, it is a better night than the last. Indeed so much so that Aymeric is gone upon his awakening, and he is left to wonder if his friend managed any rest at all. 

_I could never cage you._

Guilt is his shadow, but he dresses and prepares for an outing despite its cumbersome weight. Leather trousers, a sturdy cape and calf boots - necessary as yesterdays’ storm had fallen victim to their winter as it journeyed across the sky, the streets outside now replenishing their snow upon wet ground, forming ice and bitter frost. It is a slight worry for his leg, but it has begun to bear his weight well, healing rapidly thanks to potions he continued to sip at. It would not be the full three days of bed rest he had promised Abel, but he intends only to pick a few items from the market for his trip, and perhaps snoop back into the Hospitaliers ward for that herb book. Hardly taxing activities. 

He greets Elvone politely at the entryway where she makes a fuss of his title, and steps out into the street. It is a brittle chill, one which catches his breath from between his lips and settles a cold flush to the bridge of his nose, refreshing in its coldness and no less bitter for it. He pulls on leather gloves as he makes his way towards the market, their brown surface cracked but worn, ever reliable on long winter nights and doubly so here, where the pure population density appears to favour the city temperature. 

But favours Estinien it does not, the closeness and regularity of people passing gnawing at a faint anxiety laying at his solar plexus. He plays at the dagger sheathed at his hip but retains his confident, long walk, his nervousness a hidden secret. It is this confidence he plays up, looking down at merchant’s with a well-placed smirk or smile, haggling for supplies among the open stalls and shop-fronts. He scores a few necessities for his repair kit, a new water flask, and dried, smoked jerky which was guaranteed to last some time. To complement it he bargains down a jar of some sweet preservative and a small pouch of unrefined salt for seasoning on the road.

He eyed longingly the weaponry and armour stalls, but the metal on show was not particularly impressive - commissions of pricier metal were likely being diverted to the Knights after the battles damages, and the smiths would be making fine money indeed. Despite this, he browsed a few daggers on show, but none were well-balanced nor superior to his current blade, commissioned by Heustienne upon his ascension to an official Dragoon ( _before her_ ). It had, of course, been delivered syly, engraved - _in case your lance fails you, dragoon_ \- but in the light of their, albeit unique, camaraderie and her following sacrifice, it had come to be of importance to him.

There were not many who would buy him gifts.

Which is no wonder, since here he is, thinking of replacing said gift. He grits his teeth, brings his own hand down to clamp tightly at his wrist in punishment. He had not shown his gratitude back then, either, merely taking it a further invitation to fight, to train. They had laughed together, both vicious, both determined, and he had never even thanked her before she disappeared. Fleance tells him she wanders now, teetering on the edge of a consumption he knows well. Bird of a feather.

He feels responsible for this too, somehow. If he were not so selfish, so devoured by Nidhogg -- an endless line of thinking, as all others of such threads. It does not forgive him the inaction.

Sick of the market and its clamouring smells, he makes his way back towards Aymeric’s abode and the Hospitaliers infirmary beyond. He leaves his purchases with Elvone, per her insistence (which seemed mostly based on the state of his boots) before making his way out once more into cold, its fierceness newly felt with longevity. He is grateful he does not have to tackle the steps once more, a small ache beginning at his knee, and he hopes it is merely the cold and not his leg complaining his premature movement. 

As expected of an infirmary, it is surprisingly easy to slip in if one walks with purpose, and he had hardly expected to be stopped in the first place. His previous room is uninhabited, by neither student nor the wounded, and Estinien makes short work of raiding the desk for the tome he had previously read. He finds it with ease, slips it into his bag, leaves a few gil in between the other tomes for whoever next finds it, and hastily makes an exit.

It is not stealing. He is _buying_ it. Just… without the presence of the other party. There are bound to be countless copies of such a thing, and if it does not have at least some of the information he pursues, then he may even return it.

“Wyrmblood! I swear to Halone above if that’s you _walking_ two fury-fucked days after I -”

… but only if Abel had retired by then.

* * *

Alphinaud appears troubled, a delicate crease coming to rest at his brow, one that, in time, would come to sit there permanently - the mark of a thinker, a worrier. 

“It is too easy - killing, when you are not the one to hold the blade.” He murmurs to the fire, “I dare-say there is some similarity, when it is not yourself you hold the blade for.”

Fleance humms under his breath, watching the meat of the rabbit darken before them. He meets Estiniens’ gaze over it, and gives him a half smile, tiredness pulling at the edges of his eyes. Alphinaud continues.

“Who do you think is guilty - the one that kills on command, the one who commanded it, or the one who kills on the behalf of someone who would never ask?”

Quick as he had met him, Fleance drops his gaze, and his smile with it. To their side is a bowl of gore, to be thrown into the river or left for scavenger birds far from camp. Estinien watches the blood drip into nameless fluid, visceral and slow.

Which of them is guilty, Alphinaud asks, but Estinien cannot say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, literally refused to read this chapter so im sorry if its choppy, i'll come back with typo comb later when i can actually _see_ it and not like... ya know... writing brain it. i picked over the last chapter and fixed some typos/bad sentence structures
> 
> As ever, you can hit me up on [ tumblr](https://bakugoz.tumblr.com/), share this fic [here](https://ariswrites.tumblr.com/post/619401784119705600/splintered-kneecaps-37-15k-words), tweet it [here](https://twitter.com/insalte/status/1276257938601054208?s=20),
> 
> [ playlist! ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/53thQhgH5Sg6DzY3Za3HCT?si=kvOyU3ypS5Wud18vFlVmyw) if that is the kind of thing you're interested in. just a vibe list with no music pref.
> 
> i loved the comments and the convos i had from last chapter! i really appreciated everyones time and insights, and im SO sorry this fic is longer than i thought it would be. theres a journey arc coming which i expect will now cover an additional 2-3 chapters so, oops! thank u!
> 
> [the bookclub discord](https://discord.gg/EfbBeBf)


	5. Chapter 5

He skitters back, metal grating against stone as he slows his landing. Peregrine catches the light as Heustienne brings it down from where it almost impaled Estinien, slamming it against the courtyard in satisfaction. She grins at him, free from her helmet, and the sweat drips into the corners of her mouth.

“I thought you were the Azure Dragoon,” One of her eyebrows raises, unimpressed, the grin morphing into a playful sneer as she rolls her center of gravity back to her left foot, “ _Act like it_.”

Estinien slams down his face-plate and is jumping into the fight before she can finish wiping the smile from her face.

  
  


* * *

The last day, he finally gets to eat his pie at The Forgotten Knight. He savours its taste, though it is for some reason, dulled, perhaps due to his distracted avoidance of the eyes of those who recognise him. There has been none of the usual camaraderie that surrounds the killing of such a beast; he knows not if this the result of the truth being known, or if those upon the bridge recounted of what they saw - of Estinien’s monstrous form. Locked away inside a dragon, a puppet to rage, red-eyed and clawed and tearing at the seams to strip the life from Ishgard. Complicit. Incapable of completing even his blood-sworn duty, Fleance stepping to fill in his shoes.

An Azure Dragoon so incompetent, the eye had chosen another.

He wallows in this truth, presses it against where his waist cuts at the sharpness of his ribs. A fire had once burned within him, one so fierce its flames turned blue, had blackened and crumbled the enamel from his skeleton, had licked up the sides of his throat to coat his tongue in black, filthy soot. This fire had weakened, flickered, choked in Nidhoggs embrace -- he was the charred remains, the desolate, broken ruins of what once was a roaring crescendo. He could reach within himself, search betwit broken bone and spilling vein, and find only the deafening reality of what he felt.

Empty.

Some surface feeling, some pits of despair that could well up, sick, twisted pastiches of true emotions that wound like rivers round his shrunken heart, flood waters tinged in smoke. When he came to sit alone, to contemplate on what he felt -- there was a nothing. A space where feeling should be. He longed to place something here, to revere even the pain that would sporadically grip his soul, thrice like and unbearable. But it would not come when called, would not fill his marrow when he so begged it too. No, this misalignment was deep, integral, this emptiness was borne of himself. Of his deeds. 

That, under waves of what he felt, a great lake lay untouched. And that while the lakes surface was as serene as Maidenmeres, beneath it lay a swirling vortex, a hidden gnawing, a void that would consume any and all niceties that would think to touch its swollen surface. The space where he lost it all, where he forgot kindness and charity, where he misplaced the warmth of Aymerics’ smile, the quiet, comforting contemplation of his eyes. That he could cast his mind back, and see not these memories he knew existed, rewarded him a great aching.

He survived now, and it was survival, as there was nothing more left for him, for only the cold embrace of duty. To right his wrongs, tie off the strings he had so frayed in his inferno, and settle in the cold aftermath of his deadened passion. 

The pie, half eaten, has turned to corpse meat in his mouth. 

He leaves the Forgotten Knight shortly, his ears brushing at the fabric of his hood. On the morning, he would depart from Ishgard at last. It would only be a short trip, a day if he stretched it to its fullest, but it would suffice to test the strength of his legs, the recovery of his aether. If all went well, he would only spend the night in Ishgard once more on his return, and then set his sights on the longer road ahead. To be free of this city and its stifling politics, history, and the heavy gaze of devotion unreturned. It appeared an oasis, and he longed desperately for it, for he knew not how much longer he could tolerate this darkened cloud upon his thoughts.

The book he had lifted from the ward had been only helpful until the boundaries of Dravania, as Estinien had expected, and he had added it to Aymeric’s collection after some quiet note-taking, an exercise which tired his eyes and his hand -- he was unused to writing, and it gave way to strange muscle twitches and soreness where he adjusted to a pens hold. Strong hands, but only in the art of war, it would seem. Aymeric’s hands were long and dexterous, where between them lay pens and arrows, the smoothness of a bow. They could twist and flex, often reddened at the wrist where they touched upon desk.

He had thought long about such hands.

As if guilt were a summon, he glimpsed Aymeric at the entrance to Congregation, bidding night to the Knight on duty. It is far too late to make for an exit, as their eyes join only seconds later, and Aymeric’s stride picks up to meet him. He waits, a sick tentativeness swelling at his navel, for his friend to join him.

“A fine evening.” Aymeric greets warmly, and they set upon their path towards’ their shared destination, “Gaides’ meals not to your liking?”

Yesterday’s snow had slowed in the early hours, and now, with the clouds above streaked in red and oranges, the temperature had dropped to just above freezing. It would begin its steady decline soon, as the moon drew further into the sky, but for now the snow melted where shadows lay not.

“They are fine. Gilbrillonts’ pie however…” he trails off. Such a statement often spoke for itself, such were the tales about Gillbrontes’ cooking -- all round disappointing, but adequate, with exception only to the pies and the ale. 

“Ah, I have heard such tales from many a seasoned Knight. I regret to admit I have never tried it.” Aymeric expresses distractedly, nodding towards a passing patrol who left them a wide berth.

“I shall endeavour to treat you to one.” Estinien promised before he could stop himself, but finding it difficult to regret it when Aymeric shot him a muted smile.

“And I shall endeavour to hold you to that.” he murmurs, “Although, I trust you will not tell Gaide?”

Estinien huffs in ill-contained amusement but agrees nonetheless. They continue on their way, no longer slowed by Estinien’s leg, and though they share quiet pleasantries and news, Aymeric appears elsewhere. It is perhaps in the way his eyes roam the streets, or his fingers come to rest again and again at the hip of his blade. A habit Estinien is familiar with, and yet every word seems faintly, ghostly, as if lacking in its true intent. It is worrisome, and Estinien runs over old thoughts like streams upon corroded rock.

_(Has he slept? Eaten? What new politics troubles him, new problem?_

_When would a better friend have noticed?)_

It is the constant state of things that Aymeric is tired, pallid, worked to the bone in a way that wrings of skipped meals and headaches. It would be admirable, if it weren’t so blatantly destructive, if so much did not depend on him. If it were not so necessary, that the weight of the city sat alone upon his shoulders, documents pressing their ink to his arms, insomnia sewn into the messy strands of his hair.

It is not the last time he wishes he could speak frankly, nor would it be the last. He held his tongue, the brimming weight that lay upon their friendship a sufficient muzzle. This distance was careful, measured. Knee deep and no higher, for he fears he would drown.

Perhaps he could speak to Lucia, before his departure. If the letters had not been sufficient, further action still may be necessary.

Elvone meets them at the parlour, but disappears quickly into the bowels of the manor, the door of the servants entrance closing as Aymeric turns to him. The warmth of the inside is welcome, although his companion does not feel it, rubbing his hands together to stimulate warmth. 

“Join me in my office once you’re settled. There is something of some… import, that I would discuss with you.” He informs him with a nod, departing thereafter towards the kitchens.

It is oddly heavy-handed for Aymeric, lacking his usual linguistic grace and politeness, and drives only to further Estiniens’ worry. Thusly, he makes short work of diverging himself of his coat and coin once in his bedroom, sparing only a moment to tug his hair up and out of the way before striding down the manors hallway. Whatever haunts his friends thoughts, if there is a chance he may help in someway, he will take it. To righten the worried line of his mouth to a smile, to take back what burdens he has laid upon his friend. Some semblance of balance, so that he might stand worthy at his side.

The door to his office is ajar, and he slips inside without hesitation.

“Aymeric,” his friend starts from where he stands, pawing at the length of a book on a shelf. Upon his desk are two cups of tea, both untouched, though steam twirls from their tops. A few candles had been lit, but not quite enough to illuminate the room wholly.

In the small space, Aymeric nervousness is palpable. 

“I hope you can forgive me this, my friend. I know these situations… they are not to your liking. If I knew of some other way to speak of this, I would have found it, but -” And he pauses, skin whitening where his hands clench against one and other, “You are ever the hard man to pin down. I fear if - when - you leave, I shall not see you again for some considerable time.”

An accurate statement indeed. The threads tying him were brittle, tremulous things; duty, the innate sense of owing he felt. To pay it off, to never come back -- the desire for it was deep. The gates of Ishgard held their coldness like a well kept secret, one that preserved pain to a stifling degree. It is pain of the same kin that rises within him now, poised upon Aymerics’ words.

“I must confess -” he fidgets with the ends of his gloves, “I know not how to approach this. T’is a topic I have thought excessively on as of late.” He bites his lip, unusually coy, and Estinien’s body goes rigid despite himself, ready for some untold battle.

“You are aware that I hold you in a certain… regard?”

A faint whistling echoed in Estinien’s ear, as if the floor had become a cliff's edge. His words were stiff, awkward, but unmistakable.

“ _Regard_?”

“You are... ah. Perhaps it is better to be blunt.” His hands were shaking slightly, and he made no more attempts to face Estinien’s gaze, trepidation hanging in the air, “For quite some years now I have felt… close, to you. I worry this will offend your nature, or perhaps your morals-”

Aymeric looks -- awkward, or perhaps something lighter, embarrassment, self-consciousness, Estinien cannot think clearly enough to see. He turns, hands at his back, shoulder stiff and unyielding, the confidence he began with seemingly departing swiftly.

“Close…” Estinien echoed, throat dry, refusing to read it as it appeared before him, “Aymeric, you are my oldest friend, I -”

“Nothing more?” It is quiet, the same tone that had echoed nights before in Estinien’s head -- soft, private, longing. _So soon?_ Aymeric had asked, and Estinein had barely the heart to resist it. To imply more in such a voice… Estinien could not quite believe it, this tiny flicker at his breast.

“Aymeric,” his name was languid against his tongue as its syllables dragged out, a slow prayer, “You do not mean this.”

Something must have caught in his voice for he turns then from his contemplation of the window. It is closed, this time, and no rain drops spill past its latches. Instead, frost spans upon its corners as if a spiders web, delicate and intricate, emanating a coldness Estinien feels slips down his spine, one that is so thawed in Aymerics’ blue, blue eyes.

“I know you have felt this too.”

And of course, he would be so obvious.

There are rock pools, buried deep in mountains roots, pools of azure, ringed in sulfur which bubble and steam. They are said to be the bluest thing one could see, a sky without a cloud, molten sapphire, lapis lazuli without its golden touch. Estinien had visited these often, a well tracked path to escape Coerthas’s cold, and had frequently thought that, whoever had deemed these rock pools so, had yet to meet Aymeric de Borel.

For there is something ethereal in his gaze, something that beckons of an other-worldliness. A kindness without limitation, without human selfishness, free of mans’ sin, of his bitterness. That these eyes are a reflection of a heart - one so categorically true, pure - is impossible to know until one has borne witness to its searing. And that is what it is -- a searing, as Aymeric turns to face him, the shadows of the room ill-concealing the zeal within.

“I have not imagined this.” And it is predatory, this uttering, Estinien the prey. He thinks:

Touches against his arm, a support along his waist, quiet, private smiles, paid-off drinks and shared blood dripping from slick hands. Trips to his house, _his_ own bedroom, tents slept in together, slow, syrupy laughs and lingering gazes, a safeness he has never known to question, a comfort he could never bring himself to leave.

His throat is dry. Parched.

“No. You have not.” Estinien concedes, their intimacy undeniable, unfathomable in its reframing, and Aymeric starts forward at once, “But we - you must _think_ , we could not poss-”

“I am tired of thinking,” Aymeric utters into the space between them, small and charged, “I am tired of paperwork, and of treaties, and of courtesy and of - of - of everyone fury-damned noble whose opinion you would consider before _mine_.”

He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t, but there is a dare before him, a challenge he has longed to answer since he had first wiped the blood from his eyes, coming to in a battlefield of reds and white, an archers bow playing at the edges of his vision. He is undeserving, he understands this to his marrow, but Aymerics’ hand has come to rest upon his arm, and his fingers are warm, and heavy, and his lips, which Estinien dare not look at, are reddened where they have been licked and bitten and -

Estinien is a weak man. He always has been.

“And pray tell, what _is_ your opinion?”

Aymeric kisses him, hardly a touch against his dry lips, and it is all he can do to pull him in again, something heady and light bursting at the apex of his chest. It is more than he could have imagined, to have him this close, and such an abundance of opportunities present themselves before him than he cannot settle on a single one. It is sweet, and rough, and when his callous’ ascend to feel at the smooth velvet of Aymerics’ face, the fine bend of his cheekbone, he comes to a pause.

There are worlds between them, dark and light.

“Aymeric,” His fingers are at his waist, long and slender, and at the call of his name he presses his forehead harder against his own, “We -- this. There is good reasoning as to why we did not… why this is impossible.”

At such close quarters, Aymerics inhale is a physical, poignant thing.

“Reasoning that is now moot,” he tells him, “Reasoning I can not justify. Not anymore.” His hands slip from his waist, search up his arms to trail across his palms.

Worse - Estinien knows that he believes this. Deep intimacy, raw and bare, lies between them. It is ragged to behold, a bleeding vulnerability that has been forced into a dark, quiet place for too long. The press of their lips, the whisper of fingertips at his wrist - knife wounds deep and twisted against his touch-starved flank. The adoration in Aymerics’ every movement is so painfully apparent, reverent and gentle, as if Estinien will fade out before him, that he knows not what to do with it.

It clashes, a sticky sweetness against his hungry bones, barren and frenzied.

He means this. Estinien swallows. The scales have been weighed, and his have hit the ground beneath. Aymeric does not see this among his clouds.

“Fuck.” he says, and takes a step back, Aymerics’ hands trailing with him, “ _Aymeric_. You do not - you cannot.”

The wall is cold at his back, and Aymerics cheeks appear flushed in the wavering candlelight. He is still near, so much so the texture of his skin is decipherable, the worry knitted in his brow and the crease of a frown clear burdens upon his fair features. It feels almost unforgivable to have put them there, to taint such rapturous equilibrium, but there are other grievances he must first balance, ones old and new.

This time, it is his breath that is heavy and anxious between them.

“You would hold this regard, despite how I have treated you?”

Shadows upon Aymerics face deepen, “You have never wronged m-”

Estinien laughs bitterly, sharply, and he frees one limb from Aymeric to stifle himself. Suddenly, he feels wild at the seams. The writhing within him some feral beast, reddened at the eyes, rich in rancor.

“You truly believe that,” his lip is curled beneath his hand, “Aymeric I - I am entirely indebted to you. I have _taken_ so much. It is -” He cuts himself off, iron slicking at his gums. He is the one shaking, now, closer to a tremble. The shock has subsided, and adrenaline rears its ugly head. There is an energy within him, uncontainable, panicky, and he longs to reach for his dagger, just to feel its comforting presence. The hand upon him grounds him, but only just. He cannot focus his thoughts, articulate what he has _felt_ , only that he knows it deeply, innately. This should never have happened. He can not bring himself to hold Aymeric down in such a way.

  
“There is - more for you. With others.”

This conclusion sits ill with Aymeric.

“Let us settle this imaginary debt alongside Nidhoggs’ corpse.”

“You do not understand-”

“- No. I did not. I believed it was the judgement of others you feared, what they would do if they were to know - that they would see us unworthy of Halone’s blessings, cast us from our positions. Strip us of what good we would bring.” Aymeric grips his arm tighter, searching his face, something ill in the set of his jaw, “I believed you feared our mission being led astray, but now that times have begun to change, I thought we could admit it, at least to ourselves… but - I see now I was wrong. It is not discovery you fear, nor the repercussions of it.”

“It is that you deem yourself unworthy.”

It was too stark coming from his mouth. Estinien dropped his stare to the floor, humiliation coming to flush at his cheeks, to sting at his eyes. The mix of emotions is enough to make him him feel sick, dizzy, unsure of his own standing. He needed Aymeric to know, to understand -- he can not have this. He should never have it. Tenderness does not befit such a beast, such a base creature, and the gentleness Aymeric has traced upon him has eroded at what remaining composure he had held, what small manner of conviction he had mustered.

He wants, desperately, to have this small pleasure. 

But the cost to Aymeric - his head aches to think of it, cannot yet calm himself to truly comprehend it. He should know better, be better, to not be so Fury-damned selfish. The longing is unfathomable, to have Aymeric for himself, to give in to these building blocks of moments, the scaffolding of their tenderly unfurling relationship, to step back and behold the culmination of every drunken, hazy appreciation, every overtly honeyed word.

A gentle touch against his cheek brings him back to the moment, and once warm fingers now feel almost cold against the blood rushing to his skin. Aymeric has moved to place himself before him, his thumb caressing at the dip of his cheekbone. Softer than his, but still callous, trailing against his face.

He yearns to shutter his eyelids, escape Aymerics’ gaze; too secretive, just for him, rife with a heartbreak Estinien can feel viscerally against his throat.

“You are no such thing. Not to me.”

It is, he finds, more than he can take.

  
  


* * *

  
  


As he has speculated upon the streets of Ishgard, night brings with it a frigid cold. He is dressed inappropriately for such weather, especially upon the heights of the roof he sits, yet his legs feel heavy and immovable. He does not believe with any confidence he could move if he wanted, nor does he place much faith in his body in its present state. Darkness had fallen as a velveteen curtain around him, low against the glowing lights of windows and lamps, yet upon his chosen perch, real darkness creeps in. Strangled and weak, but undiluted in its absoluteness. 

His head aches to squint into it.

It hardly was fair that only hours had passed since he had strode from the Forgotten Knight, ignorant to the culmination of years of suppressed, bitters craving awaiting him. It felt impossible to control the whirling direction of his straying thoughts, any attempt to collect them together into something cohesive immediately failing to the image of Aymerics’ sweet, reddened cheeks, the dip of his throat as he leaned towards him, the dryness of his skin dragging against his own.

Imaginings he would never have believed to have passed, and yet they remain, imprinted upon him. Too real to deny, and yet he finds he searches for any other possible explanation. It is too fanciful to be true, kinder to suffocate hope before it truly takes hold but -

But -

A diamond has fallen upon his lap, and he knows not if to pick it up is to treasure it, or to deprive it of its true, deserved appreciation.

  
  


(Many years ago, a drunken Aymeric had stumbled into his arms, and they had laughed, loud and brash, behind the walls of the Manor gardens. And Aymeric had dropped his eyes, and Estinien had noticed how the wine had stained his lips red, and Estinien had wanted to stain his red, too.

Then he dropped the wine bottle from cold-numbed hands, and Aymeric had smacked him on the back, gently chastising the waste, and his eyes had never left Estiniens’ mouth. Not once.)

* * *

He departs before morning can rise. In the early hours of the day, stiff and frozen, he had returned to a quiet house. It was with some sense of disconnect he had collected his belongings from his bedroom and relocated to The Forgotten Knight, Adaillie not commenting on the lateness of the hour nor his state upon taking his gil. It had felt wrong to intrude on Aymerics’ goodwill after he had left him in such a state, pleas and beckoning hands ignored in his overwhelmed exit. He had not slept well, as was to be expected, but the warmth had been most welcome, especially with the forthcoming exertion.

Before exiting Ishgard proper, Estinien had dropped his collected belongings at the barracks and, unsurprised to discover his other possessions had not been touched, collected an old relic of his squire days -- a sword. Well-balanced but dim from lack of use, it had weighted strangely at his hip, but he was loathe to tote around a lance just yet.

He was not expecting trouble, but it would be stranger still for him to be seen without some kind of weapon, if he were to be recognised. The last thing he desired were undue rumours, ones that would undoubtedly circle back to somehow reflect badly on Aymeric.

It was a talent of these pampered ladies and lords.

Upon the first foot forward out from the Steps of Fate, Estinien felt, immediately, as if some great load had been relieved from his shoulders.. Ishgard at his back, warmed from a night at a hearth and dressed in his leathers, the thrill of travel is an inevitable but welcome companion. The freedom to choose ones’ own path, to venture out to the hearts desire - he envied adventures’ this, truly. To be unbound by the conviction of others was a shadow that he slipped from rarely, all the more tantalising in its evasiveness. 

He pauses, allows himself a second to breath in the frosty air, feel the soothing caress of clear, fresh wind upon his face, before an impatient trill sounds behind him.

The chocobo, oesinstably named Sage, had been a last minute decision as he had passed the stables. It had occurred to him that, while his leg had, from what little he could gauge, healed well, he knew he was pushing it to its rightful limits. And that, paired with a night poorly dressed in the cold, certain… complications could occur. Thus, Sage has been acquired to be a means of transport only if his legs injury came back to haunt him. As it was, Sage remained unburdened with exception only to her feed, Estinien determined to build back some strength lost in recovery and shouldering his own bags, and appeared delighted by it. He had fashioned a longer lead for her, quickly realising the short reigns too restrictive for anything but riding. She comfortably followed along behind him, able to traverse the rocky path without guidance.

Her presence also lends the appearance of a merchant, albeit a strangely dressed one, returning from having sold his wares. Few Knights bother to even acknowledge him upon his road, and as mid morning draws and he arrives at Dragonhead, he receives no undue interest. He pays his fee as if he is a merchant, and ducks into the chocobo stalls to feed Sage and run her some water. Estinien himself feels too on edge to eat, eager to move forward and escape the eyes of so many Knights, the same ones who likely spent their nights gossiping over the affairs of Ishgard. With the battle upon the Steps of Fate being so recent, and of such scale, he was under no illusion his name would be upon these mens’ tongues, and he would be a fool to believe it were positive.

It would be best to keep his head down, he needed not the words of a green-sworded Knight.

He pets distractedly at Sages’ pallid feathers, roughened with age but still softer than most chocobs he had encountered. Her plumage was thick, and he absentmindedly notes she was likely bred after the calamity, quipped well for these bleak times. The chocobo they had used in Ferndale were of a similar breed, but had sported thicker legs - useful in the mountain passes’ steep terrain.

  
  


He takes the moment to look out past the sheltered stable; the post is strangely settled, if not a few shades more subdued than when Estinien had last entered it. Fortemps’ Knights stand ready at the ramparts, a few of their number training in the lightly falling snow, the steady clash of metal familiar to his ears. He had sparred here with Heustienne many times in his younger days, when they were both but squires to be put through their paces, and remembered well dragging the training dummies and crates of mock-weapons to the courtyard. It was a calmer time, then, and even now, the peace here strikes him as strange.

The difference is stark. Given the whirlwind of the main city, Coerthas is remarkably tranquil - simple, in its lack of politics, as they are waged elsewhere, and scant between these foot-soldiers. To have plain orders, a routine, nothing more complex than a steady pay and good drink… Estinien had not enjoyed it to its full, from his time among it, as it had all seemed a waste of hours otherwise spent training, lest guilt eat at him. He had relaxed rarely, and only for one such individual.

He could never return to that life, now. To be so mindless was dangerous, to fight others wars foolish, and he has had quite enough of being a mere weapon. And still, to see it was nostalgic, or perhaps nostalgic in only that he wanted it, desperately, to be his past.

Normalcy, as much as could be had in such times.

Sage nudges him while reaching round for the hay of a stabled Chocobo, and Estinien shakes his thoughts fast enough to stop her claiming her prize. It is the second time she has knocked him from preoccupation, and he was beginning to think she rather had a knack for sensing such things. She whistles innocently at his guarded expression, and he reaches up to secure her harness, mentally deciding there was no point in any further break. 

  
  


He does not look to the large double doors which lead to where Haurchefant once sat when they pass, gripping the leather in his hands tightly and keeping his eyes upon the floor. At the Northern exit, he is stopped briefly and is subject to more scrutiny - a common-place looking Knight warns him of Ixali activity, emphasises the danger, and Estinien answers only with a gripping of his sword. The entrance goes to nowhere, Ferndale and its surrounding splendor a broken memory, and there are a few reasons to pass through. He is eyed warily, but makes a show of confidence in his chosen direction, in no hurry to reveal his identity.

  
  


This side of the wall, there are a few wyvern to be seen, but they appear content with their prey of deer and wolves, paying him little mind. Still, he brings Sage closer, and they begin the process of navigating the treacherous terrain of Providence Point. It is famed for its sharp drops to nothing, Witchdrop yawning out to his left, an angry reminder of the sins of their forebearers, their not-so-distant past. Estinien pauses only a second to consider its depths, before continuing on, mapping their path with certainty and deftly picking his way around the ruptured earth, its crevices and rises similar to the ones he had grown up among. At the half-way mark, he leads them off the path and into the comparable shelter of one of the valley's snowy hillsides. Between the few trees stripped of their leaves and clinging desperately to the slanted ground, and the rising stone above them, the wind loses its bitter edge. It is stronger here than elsewhere in Coerthas, flowing freely down the from the heights of the mountain.

Despite the slight snowfall, the visibility is good, and the waste of snow and ice before him is mournful in its emptiness, warped into an unlivable, harsh environment. It is strange to think they cling still, where other life has abandoned its fight. It’s a morbid thought, one only furthered by the sight of Eagles Peak. He views it with a slow appreciation as he makes short work of his rations, temporarily sheltered by an overhang, its towering beauty better seen from a distance. He is, he finds, not sad to think he will likely never return to it. 

Some places are better left to the wilds.

It is a little past noon when he arrives at his destination. He is pleased to find his leg aches only from the exertion of hiking uphill, meaning he is likely well-enough to begin the next leg of his journey upon his return to Ishgard. Further freedom - but first, duty. He sets a small amount of feed upon the ground for Sage and ties her lead off at a stacking of stones, close enough he can reach her if any of the Wyverns change their mind on their choice of prey. 

The city towers in the distance. A great inken sketch upon the landscape, the surrounding void falling away at its feet. From here, the lights of the older city are visible as the worn carvings fade out into the rock, giving way to the darkened architecture of the cities outer face. The precarious nature of their existence is all the more emphasised, teetering upon the whims of a mountain, the breezes of the Sea of Clouds above.

Against this, sits a grave.

It is a small thing, one that inspires no small amount of grief, its diminutive nature of a contrast to the spirit it only hopes to represent. Often the butt of many jokes within the capital, to his own men and in the hearts of others, Haurchefant commanded much respect. He had been a steady-handed leader, kind to an embarrassing degree, and painfully, achingly, virtuous - believing whole heartedly in the good of others. Estinien had thought him a fool, once, fallen, as so many orphans and bastards find themselves, into the trap of Ishagardian patriotism. The one that consumed him in his younger days, before the evil of the Temple Knights had become apparent.

But rather than ignore it, Haurchefant had stood against it. His stalwart refusal to make use of Witchdrop during his years serving was a headache Aymeric had been happy to tolerate, nobles held at bay in loopholes of paperwork and bureaucracy, and it was not unheard of for the men serving beneath him to be punished harshly for behaviour harming those they vowed to protect. Not a corrupt Knight among the Fortempts, or rather, not one that would last long. Admirable to a fault, it was enough to make a man ashamed of his own deeds, that they had not been carried out in the same gold-gilded belief in his fellow man that Haurchefant so championed.

  
Count Fortemp had much to be proud of.

It is to this, a goodness that never should have ceased, a blossoming hope upon the breast of Ishagrd, that Estinien pays his respects too. May there be more of his ilk, may his influence live on, may the good among the bad rise, may they become the all. He wished it deeply in his heart.

They had talked little, Estiniens’ own frosty character to blame, but they had shared some nights upon the walls of Dragonhead together. His wit had been a welcome surprise, so, too, his persistence in friendliness when faced with the very antithesis. He regrets his treatment, now, and his negligence in not taking up the many offers of companionship made over their acquaintanceship. Perhaps it would have lifted some of the darkness from around his heart, perhaps...

Thoughts that do a dead man little good. Though, he is sure Haurchefant would have been gladdened to hear them. It was, he reflects, the kind of man he was, that he would listen to a bitters mans rambling without complaint.

His knee grows cold in the snow. It is sorely familiar.

The light flurry that had accompanied him thus far stops, as he recognises the tell-tale signs of someone approaching. They are light steps, and Sage had made no sound of warning, so he takes his time rising to his feet, dusting at the edges of his cape as he does.

A feather, contrasting painfully amongst the bleached world surrounding them, is almost instantly recognisable.

“Lord Francel.” Estinien greets with a small nod, stepping back from the graveside to allow the young man access. His face is flushed from the cold, although, if Estinien recalls correctly, the man lives in a night-constant state of disarray, his reddened cheeks not an uncommon view as he hurries among the streets of Ishgard, set upon one quest or another. The young Lord had been a close friend of Haurchefants’, the two allegedly involved in some House politics shortly before his passing that had solidified their friendship - if word from Fleance were to be deemed true. It is no surprise he had visited, though the sentiment were not returned.

“Ser Estinien,” He utters, eyes wide as he attempts to take in the sight before him, “I had not expected to find you here.”

Self-consciously, Estinen looks out towards the lights of Ishgard, unable to find an appropriate response. It seemed insulting to try.

“He was a good man.” Francel murmured after a moment, an unusually somber mood seemingly have overtaken him “One of the kindest I have ever met.”

“That he was.” 

Estinien glances at the gravestone, the flowers that now decorate it.

His mother would have liked such a thing. If only there were a flower that would survive the journey to Ferndale, it might have been a better offering than his bloodied armour.

“I did not know you two were close,” Francel offers into their shared space, the whistling wind dropping its melody for but a moment. 

“We were not.” He smooths his hand down the strap of his bag, keenly aware of the awkwardness of the exchange, “A failure on my part.”

He can not quite make out the features of the man in front of him, but the shadows curve to suggest a small smile.

“I doubt not he tried.”

Estinien exhaled quietly, “Aye.”

It is enough to content Francel. He takes to one knee and brushes at the snow that has obscured some of the text, his hand light, almost fond, in its actions. It should not be so painful to behold, but he looks away before he can see more. It feels private, and he is suddenly acutely aware that he should take his leave.

Sage trills as he approaches, and he runs his fingers down the length of her neck to quiet her. By nightfall, he will be once more at the Steps of Fate. He would consider his accommodation upon his arrival, unwilling to think on Aymeric in this moment. But is as hopeless as ever, and he finds that the touch of grief upon his palette has only furthered the need to return to his friends arms. To make good their understanding, even if it were not to be as he desired.

He frees Sages leash, and before he can leave, he hears at his back:

“Treasure whatever is dear to you."

  
Estinien pulls up his hood, and hopes the snow does not start up again.  
  


"Don't let it be in vain."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually write confession scenes, so please do let me know if it was ok! No beta as usual, mistakes are my own.
> 
> (THANK YOU for all the kind comments! and a special thank you for dani for the coffees <3 you're the best!)
> 
> you can hit me up on [ tumblr](https://bakugoz.tumblr.com/), share this fic on tumblr here [ here](https://ariswrites.tumblr.com/post/619401784119705600/splintered-kneecaps-37-15k-words), and hmu on twitter[here](https://twitter.com/insalte/).
> 
> If you're interested in a ffxiv writing community, feel free to join [the bookclub discord](https://discord.gg/EfbBeBf). it's open to readers and writers + it's full of resources + kind people. everyone has been really helpful while writing and super friendly <3


	6. Chapter 6

“Tell him, at the very least.” Fleance reasons, his scarred hands working away at the slimmed wood before him, shaping it to a point. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Death.” Deadpans Ysayle, “Banishment. Such things are unheard of in Coerthas.”

“We’re supposed to be _encouraging_ him.” And Fleance huffs, as if the world is upon his back and his alone. Ysayle pointedly looks away, her delicate understanding from the night before long passed.

Estinien has had quite enough, uncomfortable at the mere idea of the topic, “I do not recall asking your counsel.”

“I can’t help it, you’re pining so loud I think even Alphinuad can hear it.”

“I am _not_ -”

“Hear what?”

  
“Nothing.” They say in unison, and Fleance bursts into laughter, near spearing himself upon his own arrows.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Estinien arrives late to the city proper, returning Sage to a tired stableboy with only a brief parting stroke. The shadows under the boys eyes are a reflection of Estiniens own, and he finds himself thinking longingly of the rooms at the Forgotten Knight, one such which is awaiting his return. The chill in his bones and the, admittedly expected, emotional weight of the day, paired with a certain pair of blue eyes hanging over his head, have more than readied him for a good drink and a better sleep. 

His journey to the tavern is short, and he stops only for a single ale against the counter, listening idly for any relevant gossip. It’s a slow night, mostly full of complaints of the absence of one Tataru, and the Knights are close-lipped and guarded in his presence. He thinks on what manner rumours have been spun about him, true or not, and if they will soon come to bear consequence. 

He finds he does not care either way.

There has always been little for him, here, and with Alberic’s departure and Heustinne’s disappearance, the prospect of staying becomes less and less appealing. His mind wanders, not for the last time, towards the adventure Fleance and Alphinuad oft abscond on. The lands they must see, the purpose they follow - from a lord command to a farmers request, fields of strange crops and forests of unusual beasts. Food and drink the likes of which Ishgard would never serve. Where might he go, if he were to venture from these lands? Gridania had been an eternal spring, sweet and rich in its nature, while its people spoke of further lands across great expanses of ocean, silken robes and strange customs. Anything that would differ from Ishgards stifling appears an oasis, glimmering in all it’s faux appeal.

He swallows the romanticised imagery with the last of his ale, and remembers the murmured rumours of Fleance’s nightmare-fueled screaming, the steady presence applied to the fold of his arm when his gaze drifted foggily away in the middle of a conversation. Not so foreign responses to a trauma unknown, and he had witnessed it himself upon their travels. Night watches shared overlooking the disturbing flat of the Mists, nothing between them but the acknowledgement of the hour and the quiet recognition of a fellow insomniac. Each life held its own trials and its rewards, the sweeter one only ever the one which can not be had.

And still, he cannot help but want something other than he has been served. The unfairness of it all often stings, but he is not the only that hope has neglected.

Mood soured, he pays his ale and heads off early to ready for bed, forcing his thoughts away from it. 

His own fate had ever been in the hands of others.

  
  


  
  


It is late in the morning when he awakens, his body taking advantage of a rare moment of tiredness to recoup the last few days of restless nights. It is slow going, waking up, but from there he forces himself into some semblance of order, readying himself for the day.

His first stop is to the markets to stock up on yarn and replenish his dried meats. Briefly, he entertains the idea of purchasing a new cloak, warmer than his current, but settles on an additional blanket in the case of colder nights. The area surrounding Falcons Peak, where he will begin his path, ever seems to be affected worse by their eternal winter, the very trees long torn away, every drop of water frozen. It would be wise to be prepared, though he has travelled the land many times in his training, and to reach the outskirts of Dravania,a favourite of past dragon attacks.

From a generously adorned stall he buys fish skewered on a stick, sauteed mushrooms dotted between, and eats it half-heartedly while walking the length of the market. It is a fair day, no snow in sight, and the weak mid-afternoon sun had brought out many into the tentative air. Lords to peruse through shop fronts, servants haggling over hung meats, and children tucked away in corners, eyes set on candied fruits and bottled wines. It could be difficult to believe what fate they had faced only weeks prior, but they were a hardier people than most, living their lives in constant anticipation of the next wave of attacks. Death was common,injury more so, and this grief had toughened their skins and hearts to the reality of it.

He hopes, mildly, that this generation will be the last to do so. That the children born today will know only of it as an old war, dragons no more a threat than the tall tales told by their grandfathers. It is a distant one, but if anyone were to make it a reality, he believes in his very heart that it would be Aymeric. Change will come, slowly but surely, and the people of tomorrow shall enjoy its bounties.

With no particular agenda, and his mind far from made, he finds himself returning to the small pool of weapon and armour smiths he had visited days prior. Although he has no plans to arm himself yet, he misses the feel of a lance in his hands. He would do well to familiarise himself with some of the blacksmiths of this quarter, to get a better feel for the quality of their wares for when he would require a lance anew, one not so heavy with connotation.

His weapons had always been provided by the Knights Temple and the Holy See, and so it is a novel experience to pick his way through a selection of such varying quality. The sellers offer him small tidbits of their sales pitch, but he often finds his own hands to be the more fair judge - a lance is dependent on its balance, and as a taller Elezen than typical, he finds they are often not weighted enough in the bottom half, for grip lands low on its length. Some are entirely too top heavy with their unnecessary decoration about the head, and he is even more bemused to discover there is an entire subset of ornate lances, made for a nobles vanity, dusted in gold with tips so sharp they’d snap upon flesh, let alone bone. Useless things.

He found no beauty in weapons. They were objects of war, designed for bloodshed, and such regal and prettied decoration stood as but a testament to Ishgards misaligned values. There was nothing to be celebrated in a fight to the death, this war they had struggled to end, and there is no doubt such things would never be considered by those of the noble houses, who fattened themselves upon the tales of heroes and battles of the past. Their kind merely served their time among the Temple Knights, promoted their way out of the battlefield and spent their days sending young men and women to their deaths, game pieces upon a board.

And then they would decorate their halls golden lances and jeweled swords, cut delicate finery into their light, pouncy armour, and proclaim that they are _strong_. As if they knew the meaning of it. As if they’d ever weathered hardship enough to understand it.

Infuriating, and his fists curl involuntarily.

Such thoughts are how he comes to spend his remaining afternoon in one of the courtyards of the barracks, slicing and hitting his anger into a sandbag dummy with a distinct lack of grace. It has been a while since he has trained, and the inexperience shows in the ache at the sides of his hands, the odd pull to his shoulders to accommodate a sword's heavy swing. He puts too much force into his hits to have a strong defense, and he can almost hear the voice of his old instructor scolding his footwork. 

_“I don’t care if Haldrath himself came down from the heavens and taught you how to wield a lance. All Temple Knights learn the sword, and so will you. Your back foot is too far forward.”_

And she would tap the tendon at the back of his ankle, compliment some Lord's son on _poise_ , and Estinien would be left sweating and heaving, years behind his peers. He had not learned self defense with any traditional weapon in his childhood, and Alberics’ attempts to diversify his wielding had been met with staunch resistance. He remembers not the reasoning, but he’d been stubborn in his youth, and he does not envy Alberic the experience. It had been his own fault, he reflects, and yet he still had the gal to be angry at Alberic for the humiliation he faced at Ser Orlienes’ stern hands.

The man had put up with too much for someone who was not even his son.

It inspires a moment of hurt, and Estinien lunges forward, his blade cutting at the side of the dummy, sliding neatly between its beaten armour. Sand pours out, and he watches as it deflates before him, beads of rock catching the blaze of the setting sun. Two more such ruined bodies lie to his side, heaved off the pedestal after fulfilling their use, and he lowers his sword to inspect them.

Slashes across the chest, holes poked in the chinks in armour. The hurt in his arms is fulfilling. Distracting. Celebrated pain, one he can control. His lungs burn when he heaves in a breath, and it is rewarding in its intensity, invigorating in its searing simplicity. 

But - not quite enough.

There’s one more sandbag left, and it is in the flicker of torchlight he heaves away their corpses.

* * *

  
  


The streets are gloomy, lit torches glowing with their warmth but offering little light to the broad and imposing nature of the aetheryte plaza. The wide road leading to Saint Valeroyants is similarly shadowed and yet free of any trepidation, sliding upon his skin as an old friend. He muses on the rare thought of such a sight being _comforting_ , or even _beautiful,_ and wonders if he truly had escaped his fall a week ago concussion-free.

Next, he shall be singing hymns to Halone.

At the Forgotten Knight, the usual crowd has dispersed, and he drinks generously at the lone table over-seeing the rest of the tavern. He does so with a few pages of old herbal notes in front of him, if only to give the appearance of being occupied and beggar no company. In reality, his mind is lilting under the weight of all that he has heaved upon it, so many sticks beneath a great stone rock.

For a long time, he has denied and avoided all emotional confrontation under the guise of being unfeeling, preoccupied with his revenge. Or - not to much of a guise, but with full awareness it was not the entire truth. He had learned early in life that it was easier to hide something away, locked and chained, than confront it. It was symptomatic of weakness to do much else, elicited the kind of pity he had grown to hate in adults. If he was quiet and unemotional, then the younger Knights wouldn’t throw such harsh words, wouldn’t mockingly reach for his cheeks to pinch. If he was ambitious and independent, Alberic wouldn’t look at him in that sad, guilty way - the one he did when he thought Estinien couldn’t see. 

All that had been left to him was anger. Something that was celebrated in its expression, in its mind-numbing adrenaline.

As a consequence, he was woefully unprepared for such affairs. The word that came to mind, frequently as of late, was overwhelmed. It was a nigh-constant state of being, one that only strengthened his desire to stone-wall it all. It seemed an endless conflict in his mind, the only thing forcing the doors to remain open being the knowledge that Aymeric deserved better. Deserved openness, truthfulness. He could not remain so closed, so… lacking. Not if they were to be friends, not if they were to be more.

And were they to be? 

Bitterness swelled beneath his tongue, imbued his salvia, and he reached for his tankard. Bitter for bitter, the kind he could swallow. As he set it down upon the wooden table, a group of Knights bearing the Dzemael insignia entered to his right, swords clanking obnoxiously at their sides as they called out to Gibrillont for drinks. A sword, fastened correctly to its belt, is a silent thing. He eyes the inch of their blades that flash out on display, and decides he is done here for the night.

Estinien catches Gillbront’s eye as he stands, nodding an acknowledgement, and leaves a few coins on the tabletop. His steps are unsteadier than he had been prepared for, but he manages to righten himself to walk with some grace, leaving the tavern behind for the familiar cold.

He is too unsettled for the likes of sleep, and with his early departure the next morning, he knows he must address what happened with Aymeric before the night grows too old. It is no easy solution, and he takes to the comfort of Ishgards empty, isolated rooftops to allow himself the privacy to think. The Arc of the Worthy is lit up in its night guard, a beacon from where he sits, the bridge dark and foreboding, stretching out beyond it.

Often, the events of the Steps of Fate will come to mind, and more often still, he will push them aside before he has the time to think on them. Regardless, they bring with them an unsettling, persistent sensation of something pressing at the sides of his diaphragm, and he is stuck, stuttering, upon an exhale. And he stays there, until he can stare down at his hands, counting each finger off, the way Alberic taught him when he was very young, and very angry, and very scared. The breaths won’t come the same for the rest of the day, and each moment he remembers it, he is suddenly, horribly, in total control of every shuddering, heavy breath he must take.

He feels like the wretched child he was once. Small, pathetic, defenceless, biting at his tongue to stop the poison leaking out. But he cannot stop the memories, now, looking upon the lights of his home, vulnerability ill-fitting of the man he had become, coating awkwardly the pallid length of his body.

Estinien had been ready to die. He always had been, but in that moment, he had known it would happen. Had been ready to accept it, locks of dark hair shifting in and out of focus through the slits in his helm. Blue eyes, watching, and he had wished that Aymeric would look away, just this once. There was something repetitive, circular in the way his brothers’ eyes had haunted him, blue, and how he would haunt Aymerics, blue.

He had thought, in that moment, that this was the kind of coincidence the bards wrote poetry about. And then Alphinaud almost killed himself, Fleance at his side, and when Nidhogg was torn from his mind, Estinien thinks some little pieces of himself went with him. Or big pieces, gaping holes in his hearts and clawing empties at his stomach, pits in which to fall, valleys in which to pool and decay and sour. He has been stumbling and wounded every moment since he was ripped in two. Injured, waiting to lie down for the crows, but persisting on as if maggots did not writhe beneath his bloodied palms.

It would be wrong to label that moment as the catalyst alone, as if he had not been losing careless fragments of himself to this fury-cursed war since Ferndale was made into a memorial. Losing them, and burying them, and spitting upon their graves, so that it might be his family's memory lived not under the shadow of such a broken, angry, beast.

It is Nidhogg of which he thinks, but he realises with some bitter, tasteless humour, that he could as easily be described the same. The parallels between himself and Nidhogg had become over the more apparent the closer he had come to unfurling the truth of his story, but he felt no kinship with him. No relation. Only pity, disgust, a consuming rage. He was a pitiful creature, driven from the cliff of reason, baseless and sworn to avenge a soul so gentle it surely would have not languished in such torrential bloodshed. But Nidhogg had demanded it still, not to sate his sister, but in some perverted means of respect, of revenge. Any right to it had fled long ago with the passing of the guilty, but pain only festers, and nothing could hope to soothe such deep wounds, ones that gaped wide at the sides, ripping further and fuller with every aged reminder. 

The thought of it alone was enough to make Estinien feel sick, not for its happenstance, but for the reflections he had gleaned when they shared a mind. He had been years away from such a state, if that, their patterns of thinking too similar to be mistaken. He thinks of all the dragons he killed in Nidhoggs’ place. How, without the hand of Alberic, of Aymeric, Ysayle and Alphinaud… how, in the end, Nidhogg may not have been enough. A beast, bloodthirsty and wild.

Nidhogg had delighted of this within him.

Estinien should have killed them both when he had the chance.

He looks down to his hands. He counts his fingers, for they are claws no longer, and he cannot see what Aymeric claims to. Cannot align it with all the nothing inside of him, fears he will lose this delicate, aching affection to the void within that hungers, and longs, and is desperate for the slightest brush of love. He has cut this desire into tiny shards, and folded them quietly within, so that they might not pierce him as deep when they are called upon by the lilt of Aymeric’s voice, the glancing touch of his hands. It is fruitless, of course, and the following pain is always intense, and crippling, and unequivocally, unquestioningly, worth it.

There is much inside of him that is bruised, that is broken, much that desires for the light of day, that is cramped and stifled and awkward in its beginning. He does not believe he can forgive himself these sins, rid himself of that which has grown with him for so long, malignant, but it is, perhaps, a place in which to start.

Estinien searches himself, and he finds himself lacking, but -

But Aymeric has always known better.

If they are to do this, then it shall be upon equal standing.

Overhead, clouds mask the glow of the moon, and it is time to visit an old friend.

* * *

He drops down on the narrow balcony of his room, tests the door, and sighs. It’s locked, and he had suspected it would, but he had harbored a faint wish that he wouldn’t have to booker his other options. With gritted teeth, he jumps the distance to Aymerics’ bedroom balcony, and it is with some relief it becomes immediately clear it’s empty. While the fire is lit, the bed is flat, unmade but uninhabited, and Estinien does not dare look any further in. Instead, he pulls himself up onto the roof, to spare the tiles the impact of his leaps, and treads around to the only other place Aymeric could be - his office. There is no balcony, only an inlaid window, one he had knocked upon many times to signal his arrival to Aymeric at less-than-social hours. 

Elvone afterall, didn’t work through the nights, and he could hardly expect the master of the House to answer the door.

Without his lance to extend down, he uses his sword, finding it woefully shorter, but manages to tap the window without incident. Stretched out on his front, the cold begins to seep into his skin, but it is only for a moment - below, a chair screeches as it is pushed across the floor, and the sound is so warmingly nostalgic he grips bites down at his lip to contain it. How many nights had he strayed the streets, only to find himself completely by accident upon the threshold of the Borel’s Manor? How often had he called out Aymeric from his studying, his rest, to sit with him in the quiet of the night? It must be countless, beyond measure, shared wine and frosty brushes of early morning air their relentless companions.

He thinks - did Aymeric know, then? And then shakes it immediately from his head. There is no time, not in this moment.

Estinien picks his way back to the original balcony he had arrived on, and waits upon it, watchful eyes upon the dark room before him. Anxiety eats at his resolve, some traitorous thoughts whispering that their past conversations had been imagined, or Aymeric had changed his mind since, and no matter of proof, of trust in his friend, seem adequate to resolve them. He is half convinced on fleeing, if the options occurs, and he resists the urge to glance down at the garden below.

It would be so easy.

Light pours under its fitting before flooding the room. For a moment, all his attention is called to the pillows from his bed, which lie partway down the mattress, an anomaly Elvone would never allow for, but such thoughts are quickly lost as Aymeric steps out from the doorway.

He looks -- surprised, hopeful, but it fades to a quiet unreadable expression once he meets Estiniens eyes and. And Estinien supposes he deserves that. He drops the look, and takes in the rest of Aymeric. He’s wearing loose slacks and an untucked shirt, bare foot, clearly having at the very least attempted sleep if only to abandon it. His hair confirms this, messy and flattened on one side, but still curling endearingly at his neck. 

With a rattle, the doors come open, and the enormity of what is before him comes to a head.

It is paralyzing to be faced with the reality of him, not just the concept that had lurked in his mind for the past day.

This man claimed to _regard_ him.

It was almost ridiculous.

“It is no fair night, Estinien.” Greets Aymeric with an almost mechanical smile, voice grated from sleep, “Do come inside.”

“I would - I would,” _idiot, fool,_ “Aymeric I -”

_Just say it._

“I’m sorry.”

The silence is sudden. Even the rustling of their clothes appears to halt, if only to make way for the painful apparentness of their breaths, shared between them and wicked away into Ishgards skies in a handful of seconds that drag on for longer than they have any right too. His nails bite at the length of his fingers, where they curl progressively tighter as the moment drags on.

_What inadequate phrasing, what is “I’m sorry” in the face of years of neglect? Years of anger, contempt, years of barely even attempting -_

“Whatever for?”

By the Fury, what a question.

The insurmountable nature of the task must become apparent upon his features, for Aymerics’ own soften and he steps back, a hand reached out in a fragile beckon.

“Please, come inside.” He requests again, this time quieter, “It is clear we have much to say to one and other.”

Estinien bites down on his tongue, but follows obediently as Aymeric leads him out from his room and down to the kitchens. He disappears a moment into a cellar closet door, and, bereft of chairs, Estinien sits upon a crate facing the kitchen proper. Aymeric reappears, a bottle in hand, and makes short work of opening it.

He takes a drink directly from the bottle, and it is so out of character of the Aymeric of today that Estinien can only stare. This time, when Aymeric catches his eyes, bottle lowered to his chest, he only snorts.

“Pray forgive me, but it has been a trying few days. It is not often one confesses to ones closest friend, only to have them flee your very presence, taking with them all their belongings. I had quite fooled myself into thinking you might never return.” There is bitterness in the last few words, but the kind that tastes of pity. Aymeric eyes the neck of the bottle, and sighs deeply.

“But I am being too harsh.” He amends, lifting his gaze, “I did not know the whole of it. I hope you can forgive me that, at the very least. For I find that I am not sorry in the least for all else said and done.”

The affirmation is damning. Estinien does not have such places in which to receive this level of honesty, of affection, and he finds that it is overwhelming in its intensity. It had been easy, before, to pretend it did not mean anything, that it was borne of Aymerics’ innate kindness, something given to all those close to him. But here, now, knowing such things were intended for him, and him alone?

An onslaught he has no experience in fighting.

His silence must communicate something, as Aymeric takes a further swig from the bottle, something dark knitted at his brow.

“I am not sorry for that, either.” Estinien manages, hyper-aware of Aymeric’s renewed interest, “But I would apologise for me - my attitude. These times I have left you. It is - it is no way I should have treated you. You are a better man than I, to tolerate it all these years.”

It’s rehearsed. Jolting, humiliating in its starkness. He stares down at his hands once more, as he so often does, and the little scars that zig zag them remain unchanged. 

“You speak of yourself from the past.”

“Not-so-distant,” Estinien amends, “I am ashamed of it. But I would not deny it, no longer.”

“Estinien this is…” He appears to struggle to find words, but Estinien does not look up, “We are all haunted by things in our past. I never once held this against you - your anger, if it is this to which you refer, it was never… troublesome, to bear. It was never directed at me. Not truly.”

“You should not have had to bear it at all.”

Aymeric lets out a strange noise, and a bottle clinks against a counter accompanied by footsteps echo across the flagstone floor.

“Would you - look at me.”

His head is tipped up by the slightest brush of his fingers, and it is too much to be so close. He longs to close his eyes, escape the gravity of the passion that bears down upon him. They have both admitted they did not regret their kiss, their words, and this appears all too apparent at his touch.

“I know you better than this. I never once mistook your true intent. Estinien - how do I get this through to you? I know you. I know you and I -”

He cuts off, bites down at his lip.

“There is no-one else.”

Estinien’s heart hammers at the implication, heart creeps at his cheeks, but he refuses to be swayed from this need that has so haunted him. There is a shade of something distinctly childish to the way he had avoided Aymeric, snapped at him, expected so much of him without consequence. Something he can’t justify, won’t be allow to be brushed away.

“It does not change that I never should have acted upon it. It was - cowardly. Regardless of how well you have come to know me, it does not excuse it. You did not deserve it. That I would leave you upon such an hour, twice, now, is unforgivable.”

It hurts, in fact, to consider that his casual disregard had become so common that Aymeric had grown used to it. Had read into it further, considered it. It must have been painful, the first few times, and it feels worse than every disemboweling wound at his stomach.

“And you do not deserve this self-flagellation.” Aymeric observes, “But we both find ourselves here, regardless.”

“Aymeric - By the Fury, _please._ ”

Aymeric considers him, the look of a man with much on his mind about his face. Estinien does not deserve forgiveness, knows this, but also knows that Aymeric would never offer him anything less. 

He is too good to him.

“This is what drives you to believe you are unworthy?” Aymeric wonders aloud, his hand coming to touch at his jaw once more, “That you have not earned my affection?”

The flush of his skin worsens, and he is acutely aware of Aymeric watching him, reading his expression like one of his many books. He is right in this - he does know Estinien, better than anyone else, perhaps, even than Estinien himself. They had grown together, Aymeric a tree, Estinien its mistletoe, unequivocally bound to one and other. It allows for this intimacy they enjoy, this familiarity that stoppers his intrinsic avoidance of touch, that garners his unquestioned devotion.

There is no-one else for him, either, he realises, an echo of Aymerics’ promise. He is too wrapped up, too utterly consumed to have ever considered anyone else. There is one absolute, one inevitability in his life, and he thinks, of all the times he had imagined losing Ayneric, not one of them had been by his own violation.

It would be unfathomable.

“Then I accept your apology.” Ayermic tells him, his full hand coming to rest at his jaw, capturing his attention anew. “And I don’t hold it against you. Not a moment of it. I am no prize upon an altar, Estinien - I am a person, my affection is not to be earned. I give it freely. And I give it to you.”

The relief is staggering. He sags in his seat, head coming down against one of his palms, and Aymeric comes with him, crouching between his legs, his hand remaining at the angle of his jaw. Their faces are close, and Aymeric brushes aside his hair with his other hand so that they might meet eyes. It is fond, gentle, the smallest of movement but inconceivable in its significance. He cannot believe that he is not dreaming.

But - the softness in the curve of his lips, the adoration painted so plainly before him - Estinien could never think to dream such things. Had never even thought to allow himself them.

“That you would think I would ever bear such ill will towards you, I do know not.” He hesitates, “If I have ever -”

Estinien cannot bear to hear Aymeric apologise for Estiniens’ own failings. He places his hand over where Aymerics lies, and the movement is enough to halt his words.

“You have never wronged me. Never.” He emphasised the word, and Aymeric’s eyes flutter closed a moment. Estinien can’t help but run his hand down the length of Aymeric’s arm, the sleeves having fallen down to the crook of his elbow, trembling in the disbelief of being allowed such liberties. “It is I who falters.”

“And I who has forgiven.” Aymeric smiles, slight and unguarded, face tipping “Now. Where does that leave us?”

Estinien grips tightens at his elbow, and their lips meet once more. Sweeter somehow, in the knowledge of their returned affection.

  
  


(Light dawns in the small window leading to the courtyard, and Estinien knows he must go - knows he has a long road ahead of him. 

But just for this moment, he allows himself the luxury, the idle pleasure, of Aymerics’ embrace.)

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so happy you guys liked the scene in the last chapter, and i hope you enjoyed this one just as much! i know it's a bit fillery but i hope you can forgive me. let me know your thoughts ^_^
> 
> im not sure when i'll have the next chapter up bc of the upcoming patch, but i am taking part in [estimeric week](https://twitter.com/estimericweek1) with a introduction to my punk AU, so you can definitely catch me then o/
> 
> links!  
> [ tumblr ](https://ariswrites.tumblr.com/post/619401784119705600/splintered-kneecaps-58-26k-words)  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/insalte)  
> [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/53thQhgH5Sg6DzY3Za3HCT?si=52Rv2MbpRYi7BA60McT7Fw)  
> [ishgard lore doc](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1bU8WfHxznhgKqDpix-l-SCCZy6bZ5Ecnwca87ay2p4Y/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> [bookclub discord](https://discord.gg/EfbBeBf%22) (if you like fic <3)


	7. Chapter 7

The scarf, wrapped tightly around his face, is barely enough to keep at bay the bellowing, frisked winds of Coerthas. Doubly so those that soared and wailed at such an altitude, unobstructed by the towering stonework of Ishgard and the mountainous surroundings of the highlands. It was a far cry from the warmth he had torn himself from only two hours past, such so the memory was almost dreamy in its remembrance, his growing hangover the only indication the night had indeed occurred. Beneath him, the chocobo was content to ignore his woes, blissfully unaware of the ice forming against its feathers and the unpleasant feeling brought on by its lurching gait, hard at work jockeying them across the abyss that stretched out below.

Falcons Nest lay in sight, and thankfully, the jolting but necessary journey took little time once the winds faltered in their besiegement this close to the highland mountains. It was with a pat and a treat of Gysahl that the Chocobo departed him, seemingly finding its own way towards the stables where a boy awaited it, releasing the hatches on a shared stall with stiff fingers. Estinien remembers well the unique chill of an early morning while young, the harsh cold of metal gates permeating keenly to the bone no matter how short a time it was touched. His father had called him soft for shirking the ends of his sleeves across his palm when opening the Karkuls barn, though he had himself learnt it by watching him do the very same thing.

He nods gamely to the boy, sharing a brief moment of one-sided understanding, before hauling his travelling bag onto his back and descending the stairs from the airship landing. As one of the few defenses remaining standing and manned for quite some miles, the formerly large village holds a bustling population. Spaces intended for the training of Knights have become market corridors, old barracks now fashioned as Inns, and at the outposts' feet houses had begun to build up, clinging to the proximity of the main city and its eluded safety.

As such, the outpost was busy with both soldiers and common-folk alike, breakfasts being sold and supplies stacked atop Chocobs. It is at odds with what comes to his mind when he thinks of the place; through Nidhoggs’ blur, the rejoice of chaos, the goading pleading tones in which he was sweetly wrapped. The arrow. The locking of his leg muscles as it came towards him, just the slightest bit off kilter, Aymerics’ worry manifested. Half of him had wanted to step that bit to the side, to let it hit, though he doubted it would do so much in his armour, while the rest of him had viciously restrained itself from any movement.

Nidhogg had wanted him to kill Aymeric, then. He had feared the slightest movement would only tempt his cursed limbs. Instead, it had been only a dragon, and an injury at most. 

Estinien grimaces to himself at the recollection, his face stiff and cold from the flight. There are few moments of true clarity available to him, most of his memory a jagged pit, sharp and hollow, but this remains present. It is impossible not to cling to every glimpse of Aymeric, it seems, his every moment of burning significance to him.

His eyes, when he had departed, the reliable awe at the deepness of the blue, the richness reserved for _him_ -

A swallow, bloody and dry. Estinien shrugs, unable to shake the ghostly ache of his yearning, and he vows to leave the place quickly to free himself of such reminders. He descends past the market, the plaque a heavy shadow at his neck, carefully focusing elsewhere in a vain hope that the wallow at the base of his thoughts dare not consume him, willing him to turn upon his path.

He comes to the front of the outpost, picking past the make-shift housing, where a familiar lay of ice stretches out in shallow hills and invisible drops. A favoured training ground, and a regular patrol route, the Coerthas Western Highlands had once provided a formidable range of environments -- the forests, rivers, lakes and mountains made for good sport, the array of hamlets and villages farming the land welcome reprieves along the worn routes. It had reminded him of home, when he first arrived, and he had distinctly hated it.

Looking at what remained of it now, Estinien could not help but feel a lick of shame. It had all become self-same, Coerthas, and he had squandered what once lay abundant. Foolish, though there is no one to tell it too. The folk here likely know the pain more keenly than he, for it is what their livelihoods once stood upon.

And there were but more he could do for them. What use was a fighter, in times of peace?

The day waits for no man, and he does not doubt there will be many lonely hours upon the road on which to follow these chains of thoughts. He pulls tighter his cloak, grateful for the extra layers Aymeric had insisted upon before he left, taken from his own closet no less, and sets out upon a path, marked only in his memory.

A thick, eternal snow had covered all else.

* * *

It is the morning on his third day, and over the imposing arches of ice, a trickle of faint sunlight is to be seen. It backlights the cliff tops as diffusing halos, a touch of something ethereal slipping down into the canyon guarding the crossing. The nature of it brings to mind Ysayle, their first friendly contact not so far-flung from Dragonspit, atop its flat head above. He treads the steps they had taken together, small glimpses of memory straying between his eyelashes;

Ysayle’s confident, guarded, walk, how her shoulder had relaxed as they stepped from the Coertheran storm, how his own had risen up alongside the trees high, high above them. The easy-going pace Fleance set between them, a careful divider of claws, bow slung over his arm for an easy deploy, and Alphinuad at Estinien’s own side, muttering away some stolen sentiments no doubt memorised from a book.

How sour. How sweet. Much and nothing had changed, since, though he wishes such characters to be by his side again. Their group had done for him what years of training among Knights had not - instilled within him the value of comradeship. To know trust in battle. Full glad he is to have experienced it.

Before this all, he had been a different man.

He passes through the tunnel which neatly divides the lands, taking a small break to divest himself of gear more appropriate for thick snow, and arrives, finally, into the Dravanian forest.

The foliage is sparse this side of the mountains, and the trees look as if they mean to step from where they are nested in the rocky ground. The proceeding trail is well worn, grooved with carriage, chocobo prints and boots alike. As he treks further from the shadow of the peaks, bushes begin to border the road, and smaller trees weave themselves amongst their herculean trunks. The sky over-head, free of clouds, a sight he shall ever treasure, is bright with midday sun. 

In passing, he makes mental note of the shapes of leaves, the hues of berries, tucking their diverts and palettes aside to compare to the sparse notes he carries. Infrequently he stops to pocket those he recalls as edible from his admittedly vague and boredom-driven research. A few are matches in an instant, remembered from long ago, and he takes some peace from their quiet sense of acquaintanceship. Unknown to the wastes of Coerthas, here, life flows, not so unlike the little bough he once hailed as home.

He diverts a small walk to a favourable collection of fallen rocks, and brings forth his rations with his back propped against them. The earth is dry beneath him, and he relishes the novelty of it all -- no ice, no snow. Aye, some biting winds, but here where the forest thickened it was hardly more than a Coetharn summers day. Not the ones he had once enjoyed, but the harsher ones of this age, the ones shared within the walls of Aymeric’s study, warmth from what little sunlight filtered comforting his back. On the roads, it had been slush and ice, rare berries coming to fruit, shaved Karkuls picking at ever-greens.

Estinien is brought from his fanciful remembrances by the unmistakable thump of a footfall. He drops the pouch of salt extracted from his bag and springs to his feet, freeing his sword even as a familiar figure comes into view.

He dare not believe it.

“So the rumours are true!” The stranger announces, a lance of their own strung upon their back, “Estinien Wyrmblood is free from his curse, leaving Nidhogg dead in his wake…”

Heustinne smiles.

“T’is a shame. I thought we might have shared in the irony of it.”

Estinien cannot quite believe his eyes, but she is unmistakable on sight, her blonde hair gleaming as if a halo and Peregrine proud upon her back, bone white despite the tails of bloodshed her disappearance had seemingly wrought.

The dagger at his side feels, suddenly, heavy.

“I had not thought to find you here.” Estinien confides, stepping down from his stance and sheathing his sword. She displays no sign of turning, dressed still in the metals of a Knight, although it bears no insignia, her hair longer but no more untamed. There is nothing of the wildness, the anger, fear he had known upon others who had partaken in dragon blood. Often, there would be a feeling of unease about them, as if they were merely a handful of moments between splitting their unstable forms.

He knows not how she resists the call of her blood dragon, but he doubts not that if any were too, it would be her. She had ever been his equal, better than him, it seemed, in these matters. It is hard to pin down the gladness that rises in his chest, for it competes with a placeless ache.

“Nor I you,” she raises an eyebrow, the movement painfully nostalgic, “and without Gae Bolg. A sword suited you ill, if I am to remember correctly.”

Estinen snorts softly, but does not reply straight away, crouching instead to retrieve his belongings, the salt luckily unspilt. He is sure they had shared one mind about the manner of their instructor, Ser Orliene, although she had been more tactful with baring her barbed instructions. Holding ones tongue had never been his strong point, his younger self even less inclined.

“Do you seek the last of Nidhoggs brood? They have migrated this way some weeks past.” She offers, moving into the clearing with him. He notes she carries no supplies on her person, dressed suitably for the fairer weather here.

A camp or settlement nearby, then, one she is comfortable leaving unattended. Fleance had mentioned she had made Dravania her home, but little else.

“No,” he shares, “I make to Tailfeather, and then for the Mists.” 

She laughs, though it is strangely harsh, as if forced, “What lies in the Mists, if not dragons?” Heustinne settles down upon the rock he had leant upon, the curve of her shoulder sloping down in a projected ease. 

Estinien knows not what to say. They had been comrades, though not bound by blood as Alphinuad and Fleance. Almost friends, if Estinien had only allowed himself then. She had taken on a new light of importance in her absence, in the realisation of the true depths of her bravery, her determination, but it is not one he knows how to communicate. How to transition. The reality of her is different, he finds, and he does not have the words to bridge it.

The topic, too, appears loaded. Her blood, he assumes. Ishgard’s new truth, their newly entwined future, was so very fresh -- he knew not if she agreed. She is practical to a fault, kind in her regard, but there is much to be said of those who had been held against their will, tortured, by the former heretics. 

She may not think kindly of dragons, still. 

The days spent alone, trudging through ice and snow and half-buried rock, had contributed little to his social grace, and these are mazes he is unfit to traverse. 

“A grave.” He decides upon, settling down at her side, choosing to take the path of Aymerics much adored neutrality.

“Many lie there,” She replies, “Although I will not guess each name.” 

Hauestienne had never let him get away with such evasiveness, and yet he would not chance it. He glances to his side where she sits. She makes eye contact, confident to a fault, and he notes, to some surprise, there are little signs of discontent upon her features. She is clean, well-kept, and the barest of shadows lie beneath her gaze -- well-rested, healthy, only the more obvious as such close quarters.

It inspires upon him the next question, ones he does not ask often enough, but one he finds whose answer he genuinely cares for.

“How fare thee, Heustienne?”

She hums under her breath, and the moment of silence, punctuated only by their footsteps, is long enough he almost regrets straying from the blueprints of their past conversations. Heat rises to his ears, and he clenches his fist at his side. 

How hard it is, to be soft. 

“Truly,” He murmurs, eyes fixed upon ground, “I would know, there is scarce news of you in Ishgard.”

He feels her eyes upon him, but adds no further, examining the ground beneath them.

“... Well,” she admits after a fashion, done taking her measure of the man before her, “I have found a means of control, against what nature brews within. It has come from an unlikely place, as the fates would find fitting.

“Although, I miss Ishgard, and my father the most. Does he… fare well? He is too old to make the journey here, and I…”

“He does.” Estinien confirms, although he had not seen nor spoken to Ser Montorgains, news of any illness or death would have reached even him.

She nods to herself, pleased, “Then these are good tidings. How is all else?”

Estinien stalls, wracking his brain of what to say of Ishgard.

“Ser Aymeric makes to unite the Nobles in rebuilding Ishgard anew, free from the chains of the Dragonsong war. It is all much the same. Pointless squabbling and gil-grabbing. I see not what you would miss in it.”

Her laugh is rough at the edges, this time, and Estinien does his best not to notice.

“And your Lord Commander, he is well, too?”

He looks over at her insinuation, and she is smiling, wickedly, as if not a day had gone by since their last spar. He had not forgotten how she had loved the talk of the Azure Dragoon being the Lord Commanders loyal dog - she had brought it up to no end, when it first began, and seemingly intended to still, ignorant to what had occurred since last.

The warmth of his arms, the shadow in his eyes, the smooth expanse beneath his palm -

“ _Our_ Lord Commander is quite fine.”

“Ah… our Lord Commander. The very same, I hear, who so gallantly lifted Ishgards’ Azure Dragoon from the heat of battle?” 

He cannot help but purse his lips tighter at her teasing tone, and the heat returns to his ears with a vengeance. Estinien longs to pull up his hood, Hesutinenes’ building amusement palatable in the air, and he is suddenly struck with the rather violent urge to duel her.

Unrelated, of course.

“Where in the seven hells did you hear that?” He mutters. 

“So it’s true,” from his peripheral, he sees her tucks her hair behind her ear, smug, “I did not believe Alberic, at first.”

“He has come this way?”

“Indeed, on the tails of Nidhoggs’ fleeing hoard. He has settled in Tailfeather, for the time being.”

Estinien curses lightly under his breath

“He brings with him, too, more news -- that Ishgard has made peace with its dragons.”

Casting aside thoughts of his adopted father, Estinien nods cautiously, the subject coming to head sooner than he’d wished, “By Aymerics and Fleances’ behest. There is ill will only towards those who still sway upon Nidhoggs’ command.”

“You did not mention this.”

“No.”

She dips her chin, resting it upon her palms. “I do not resent them. Only perhaps, the actions of a few.” She is decisive, fast, “What of you, Azure Dragoon?”

Truly, he does not wish to think on it. He lamented enough upon that damned Wyrm - but it is a thoughtful question, one unique to their former positions. Dragoons, dragon slayers. It was in their blood to hate them, or rather -- the dragon blood was in them. Perhaps it is this that had driven them, though he’d be a fool to believe it. A generational trauma, a fear so large it encompassed entire family trees. Structured a society to affix to it.

It is this which rises upon him at the sight of wings cast stark upon the sky, this which he chokes upon when claws click against stone, when scales scatter and curl with the give of flame. But - the dragons themselves? As he has come to know them?

Departed from what confidence he once harboured, he is unsure, now, the morals of their war blending in a bleak grey.

They had destroyed her world, too.

“... If they would have asked me, for this peace, before Nidhogg had fallen, I know not the limits of my loyalty.” Estinien says, slowly, “My blood oath is paid. No more good shall come of death.”

He thinks - a valley once green. Karkal upon the fields, the smell of sweet buns, herbs curled along the fence posts of a paddock. Idyllic, in his childish memories, long since purged of any wrongs in his saccharine nostalgia. Scenes that may be laid to rest, chapters that may be turned from, scribbled over and read no more.

But not while the final chapter had laid unwritten. Not before Nidhoggs’ fall.

“We are privileged, then, to of had our revenge, and to ask others to forsake their own.”

Estinien dips his head in a solemn agreement. In truth, he had been glad he had not been at Aymerics’ sign upon his decision. The hypocrisy of it would rest too uneasily on his soul -- while the dragons responsible for many of their ills lay dead or weakened upon Nidhoggs last breath, other dragons, unrelated to the dark wyrm, had committed acts unforgivable.

And thusly had his own kin. It was the cycle of war, to lose sight of the truths. To crave the blood of a son for his fathers’ sins. Aymeric too would understand this - and that, between this, and further, pointless, bloodshed, there was no true choice.

But it took not the pain from their people. 

They lapsed into a companionable silence, and Estinien shared out his meal among them, some sweet herbs sprinkled overtop. Birds trilled softly from high, high above in the sky, and from the road the meandering of a weighted wagon could just be deciphered. A peace, a lull, a moment upon the road where he need not guard his back.

“I shall accompany you to Tailfeather.” Stated Heustienne as he pulled himself up from the ground to pack away, “I am meeting someone there, come early evening.” Peregrine catches the darkening sun, and Estinien is reminded once more of the oddity of her sudden appearance.

“Do you have board there?”

She shakes her head, stepping back to allow him to pass towards the road, “I travel with my mentor around these lands. She is disinclined to stay long in one place, since she left Anyx Trine.”

“She is a dragon.” Estinien summarises, failing to keep the surprise from his voice, “You did not disclose this.”

He thought she might hold some degree of bitterness towards them, while she had thought the same of him. Such unnecessary cautiousness could have been avoided if he had been as upfront as usual -- but he had thought to be better, to avoid some unforeseen offence. How in Halones name did Aymeric _live_ like this?

Some eggshells, Estinen decides, should always be stepped on.

“I did not,” She says, and turns her head to smile at him, “Just as you did not.”

  
“Pedantic.”

They come out onto the road, and begin their walk west to the village. It is built in the remains of a long-deserted outpost, its stone walls visible at a distance, though worn and crumbling with its years. The path at its gates is well-tread, and a woman, presumably a guard, stands relaxed at the open gates mouth - the sparseness of the area allowing for a sufficient warning of any threats at quite the distance.

“As if you do not delight in it, behind that iron face of yours.” 

“It has certainly done me more favours than your own.”

“Pray _do_ tell me your reasoning.”

“I shall not. A jest explained is a jest poorly made.”

“Then you concede to a lack of artistry in your words. I once believed I would never see such a fair day.”

He laughs, and the suddenness of it startles even himself. He grips tight the dagger at his side, a habit fast becoming a comforting reflex, and catches the bright edge of Hesustiennes smile. It is a strangely vulnerable second wherein he knows not if he will be mocked, or ignored. The irrationality of the thought does not escape him.

“It is good to see you in such spirits.” Is all she comments, and the softness of the words speak more volume than anything further conversation could carry. He reflects that, it is good, indeed, to be in such spirits, as short-lived as they may be. 

It is an hour of further walking to reach the gates, and in it they share little more with each other, though Heustienne can not hide her mirth as he stops to collect the pleasantly round leaves of a mint plant, for the purpose of tea. Better than hot water, he tells her, but all she does is comment on Aymeric’s nobility _rubbing off_ on him. It is a relief to share in her good humour, and, he finds, that time runs just that bit faster at her side.

Thusly, when they arrive upon the gates of Tailfeather, some sentiment of regret stings at this chest.

“I will depart you here, Estinien Wyrmblood.” Heustienne grasps his arm at his chest, something warm at the crinkle of her eyes as he returns her parting, “Travel safe, my friend.” 

She leaves, then, towards a slim Elezen Duskright perched upon a rock to the side of the towns gates. He watches a moment, as they greet each-other in the lengthening shadows cast by the walls, a sprinkle of starlight freckles and white hair the only distinguishable features as they come together closely. Too closely, in fact.

And she had the _gall_ to tease him of Aymeric. 

He suppresses a snort, and turns away from the scene, Tailfeather busy before him.

Tailfeather was a small village, whose income, and thus previously dangerous proximity to dragons, revolved entirely around the hunting and capturing of chocobo. Primarily for selling to breeders within Coerthas proper, but also as a readily available and ample food source. As a result, the village was flooded with hunters, determined to catch the biggest and rarest chocobo to secure a noble's wallet, or simply, for the thrill of the big game. While domestic chocobo were fairly mild-mannered and content to stay where food was plenty, wild chocobo were, apparently, a different breed indeed - powerful kicks, sharp claws and beaks, and the capability of a fast, skywards getaway.

The abundance of bows upon the backs of those he passed was only the natural result. Estinien finds himself privately thinking that he doubts they’d measure up to Aymeric -- but one can afford to be a little less precise when hunting chocobo, opposed to dragons.

Fondly, he thinks of those fingers sprawled out against his back. His heart, weighted and sore, ached to return to where the world was softer. 

Evening had begun to touch the sky, but had not yet taken hold. Upon the lands that experienced the luxury of seasons, winter had begun its southward journey and, thus, the nights crept into the sunny hours of the afternoon, cutting short the days before warmth penetrated the earth with any substance. The river that ran through the center of Tailfeather gave off a notable chill, seemingly running from higher ground upon the surrounding mountains base, but was no doubt an essential resource for the townspeople. At its edges, small gardens were erected, most appearing to grow one recognisable plant in particular - Gysahl Greens, presumably for the chocobo housed in the many stables at the further reaches of the village.

It is here he treads, upon Heustiennes advice, in search of Alberic. Past the stables is the setup of a makeshift butchers, a location he finds mildly disturbing with such proximity to the live birds feeding happily, and then a small set of practice dummies, leading up to the edge of the curved river once more snaking around the back of the clearing. Here, the water pooled between the roots of the great trees bordering the village, creating small reservoirs onto which a pier backed.

Cross-legged upon its edge, a fishing rod cast out, sits Alberic.

Estinien cuts short his next stride, faltering at the strangely unguarded sight.

Alberic, despite his kindness, had been an imposing figure throughout much of Estiniens younger life. He had lended himself to be a rough man, one that acted out of necessity, and his tendency to throw himself into work rather than think on any one thing was one Estinien found often reflected in himself. He had needed that discipline, then, that distraction. Had clung to it in the absence of little else, faceless masses and prettied words falling at the wayside of his cares.

It had taken a long time to see Alberic as more than the man that housed him. More than his trainer, his lifeline to vengeance, the only one still living from the smokes of Ferndale. A stern hand against his, an anguished voice asking their names, to carve them upon what stone left untarnished.

As long as he had known him, he had been steady, reliable, and constant. Locked in the eternal image of their first meeting, of his stance upon the training grounds - powerful, unbeatable, immovable. A looming figure above, a standard in which to ascend.

When, Estinien wondered, had his hair begun to grey?

“I thought I heard a familiar brooding.”

A chill strikes at his spine. Alberic has angled away from the water, eyes obscured by the shadow of the treelines but nonetheless pinned to his. Estinien feels -- stuck, butterfly wings upon a parchment frame. The nostalgia of his features, darkened with time, is a poignant point of hurt. That he should let someone so integral become _nostaglic._

A stranger, if he were not so familiar.

“Sit, if you’re staying. You’re scaring the fish.”

Estinien does as requested, moving closer and settling in upon the piers cool wood, sufficient space between them as to mistake them as strangers. This close, the water's keen bite is a palatable coldness against his tongue, fresh and crisp. 

“... What few remain.” Alberic confesses idly, as if Estiniens’ presence is no anomaly “t’is the butchers slaughter day, where the waters run red. Too many drown in the blood.”

“Then why fish here?”

His voice is quiet, cowed, and Estinien comes to hate it.

Alberic looks out at his rod, the line loose from where it hangs, “The ones that survive are worth it.”

“Is that some nonsense metaphor, old man?”

Alberic chuckles, and the sound of it rattles terribly in Estiniens chest. Guilt, sudden and choking, bites down at his throat, teeth sinking in the salience of his adams apple. He is -- torn, by what emotions stir at the mere presence of his mentor. The comfort, the betrayal, the anger -- what separation can he draw from his own feelings, and Nidhoggs'? The knowledge of Alberics actions sting, yes, but so too is he soothed by every action since. He is a kind man, a good man.

He thinks, often, that if he were in that position, that day, that he would have risked it. Would have bartered all of Ishgards lives for a moment of his families.

But he is a fool, reckless and sickly, one who fell to Nidhogg's whims the second time as surely as he did the first.

He tastes now, in the air, the blood Alberic had mentioned.

( _Estinien feels, for the briefest of moments, old, though he was no such thing. Worn and battered, as though every breath of wind and lick of rain had weathered him down to some moss-ridden skeleton, gravel pooled in his joints and cracks spilling from his knees. The past years had taken much from him, and returned little, pursuing what small rest he would keep for himself. Such thoughts were keen at his mind in such lulls, more tiring still than the constant hypervigilance, unable to fathom its weight fully._

_Often, he thinks of this. Of potential future. Alternate realities, where this tragedy did not befall him._

_Often, he comes to no real conclusion_.)

“Would you listen to the words of an old man?” Alberic requests, into the quiet Estiniens thoughts have drifted between them, “There is no need to heed them.”

Estinien nods his assent, stiff and cold. The wood beneath his fingertips is frayed, sharp against what skin can feel them. It is darker here, beneath the leaves of the great trees above them, and the bustle of Tailfeather is muted and foregin to his ears. Alberic appears -- altered , somehow, in the hazy orange that permeates even the shadow this side of the mountains. Evident now, he traces the lines upon his face as if they were new, trails that spoke of years lived beyond his true count. Not all are as kind and sweetly curled as those at the edges of his lips, framing the space between chin and nose with a trace of bygone merriment. Some are harsh lines, pulling skin together, beckoning forth shadows unwillingly into the contours of his face. 

( _Hyur, of course, do not have the vitality of the elezen. Alberic is half done with his life, likely more. War is unkind to a gentle aging, the labour of the dragoons even less so. There are little years between them, and yet -_ )

He drops his eyes quickly, some misplaced guilt rising to spill upon his tongue. 

Estinien has never considered losing Alberic to something as inevitable as time. Should not. They are young, the both of them, though it often feels as if longer has traversed between them.

The water between them bubbles into the hesitation, and Alberic rises upon its intrusion.

“When I fled Ferndale, you upon my back, I knew not where the world would take me.” He begins, quietly, “I knew not that I would raise you, nor that you would succeed me beyond my wildest imaginings. Only that I had the blood of Ferndale upon my hands, and that I would do all within my power to ensure you would never live with such a burden.”

At the corner of his eyes, something stings. He pushes his hands harder against the decking, thinks not of the heights of Eagles Peak.

“I failed you, my boy, before I could ever even protect you.

“I do not court your forgiveness, or your understanding - Fury knows I have strayed far beyond it. But - I am sorry for a decision I failed in making. For what truth I deprived you of. There is little I can offer you now in reparations, so late it has become. I have not the words for my shame, only those that would wish you well upon whatever venture you now seek, and that I would not resent you for what words you, too, would have.”

Something pricks at his fingertips. It is loud, overwhelming. Alberic clears his throat, some brusqueness returning to him.

“I have come to understand there is more to the world than what Ishgard once held for us, for you -- and I hope it finds you ready.” He looks towards him, then, and his gaze is heavy on his shoulders, a corpse upon his mantle.

“And I to you,” the words stick in his throat, oddly muted and deep, but he finds they ring true. All this -- he knows. Alberic has never been anything less than sincere, than painfully open. 

He would never offer Estinien anything less.

He wonders - and not for the first time - what Alberic had sacrificed, truly, to have been by his side for all these years. How deep his sense of duty must run, how sharply the guilt must cut, that he remained within the bed of his failures, surrounded by Knights Estinien knows not to be kind. Ishgard was, at its best, a seething fury-damned hole of backstabbers. Alone, it were an unbearable city, survived only by Alberics company, and then, later, Aymerics.

Had Alberic had that someone? That port in a storm? Or had he leant onto nothing, all he had gathered to him some ungrateful, spiteful child-

He should apologise.

He should -

Without his volition, his eyes scrunch shut, and he finds himself longing to curl up, tight and small, tucked away in some dark corner so that he may be alone with his thoughts. They are dark, and overwhelming, and they clamour at his heart to be heard, to be spoken --

What is right, to feel? What comes not from his emptiness, his hurt?

“Breathe, boy. Like I taught you.” 

What is it that Francel had said? _Treasure whatever is dear to you._ How is he supposed to _know_ ? How can he treasure, when everything brought close to him is held too tightly, crumbles too fast? How could he possibly bring something so close, when he is so lacking? When his _treasuring_ is _hurting_?

How can he keep Alberic close, when he has already pushed him away?

“ _Breathe_ , it is only us here, lad.”

He counts under his breath, taps his fingers to his thighs, tries desperately to grab for the fraying strands that threaten to split open to bare forth what wreck lies within. It is a comfort, brief and sharp, that none of the townsfolk can see such a flagrant display of weakness. A sweat has broken at his spine, and his fingers sting tightly.

“There we are.”

For what must be the thousandth time that day, Estinien shares in a heavy quiet, years unspoken leaden in the air. His past is like this, often. Aged and scarred. Painful where it has been picked and left to rot. The air in his chest is heavy and aching to move, but move it does, slow and steady in line with the knock of Alberic’s foot against the edge of the pier.

Something tugs at the line, and Alberics’ calloused hands set to the steady, automatic motions of reeling. He catches his breath, and the light dims around them.

Shame floods, hot and red as sound filters back to his ears, and he returns one grip to his dagger, eyes upon the hooked fish wriggling and thrashing at the surface. If only emotion were as easy to cut down as a dragon. As a definitive to end as a life. The shadows of it play at his mind, pulls his teeth into his tongue, and he thinks of every small way he must bruise and bleed to relive it.

He is beyond this. Better than this. The coldness of his arms is fresh, and he feels it to the bone.

When the fish breaks the water, it is long and silver, small in Alberic’s hands. Its stomach is tinged in red, and where it comes to lie against its dead brethren, it gasps and twitches weakly. Estinien watches it choke out its last breaths.

Alberic recasts his line, the fish stops moving.

“Much has changed for you.”

Estinien nods, throat dry from sickened panic, dragging himself from the sorid gravewatching,

“It won’t swallow you. You are stronger than that, boy.”

And it is said with such conviction, such mettle, that it can not be anything but true. But fitted to his breast.

“I-”

His jaw shuts uselessly, and his fingers grow pale where they grip at his legs. He knows not what sentiment he wants to express. What emotion he means to convey. He is -- not unsure, not undecided, but dazed. No more than a year has passed since a rift opened betwit them, and with time its walls have grown sharp and steep, whatever bridges left to traverse frail and old. To step out upon one now, when he knows not if he means to complete the journey, is a fool errand.

And yet -

The softness of Aymeric’s eyes. The promises he has uttered into soft skin, bloodied callous, the swearings of change that dog his every breath.

Alberic had done everything he could, all those years ago, it would be a disservice to strive not for the same.

“I would have no ill words with you. I - I know not what words I would have with you. But I would not have us estranged again. You - we - “

_I cannot forgive you, but I cannot willfully misunderstand you._

Alberic’s eyes catch the light, shining in caged brightness, and his hand at his shoulder is as familiar as it is painful. Something shadowy lifts from his ribs, and his thoughts desert him in the wake of Alberics smile.

Like his fathers, he notes, and he knows there is nothing more that need be said between them.

(The evening draws on, fish come to lie at Alberic’s side, and Estinien digs the splinters from his fingertips, the blood red only as it catches the dying sun.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have foresaken flashbacks this chapter bc it already took me 7 months to write essentially NOTHING HAPPENING dqejhfkqefhqeJKFE but i hope u enjoying heustiennes visit i love her <3 and also her girlfriend, who is totally not danis WoL, 
> 
> i redid the alberic convo like 5 times and im not happy with it but i kinda accepted i dont have the depth to write it how i wanted it so we have this <3
> 
> [twitter ](https://twitter.com/insalte)(come and say hi!)  
> [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/53thQhgH5Sg6DzY3Za3HCT?si=fD6htfAjQAuBslnhDLgLwg)
> 
> [also i wrote estinien/fray check out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28656480)


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